Like Never Before
by jcd1013
Summary: Washington DC, 2002. A summer away from home, Paris and Rory forge an unexpected friendship and discover some lessons about life and love. Rory & Paris friendship, Literati, Paris?
1. The distance can make you feel close

**Like Never Before**

**By jcd1013**

Away from home for the first time, Paris and Rory forge an unexpected friendship. Paris/Rory friendship. R/J, P/other.

Disclaimer: While the plot is mine, Gilmore Girls and their characters do not belong to me in any form. Music and lyrics contained herein are the property of Eva Cassidy's record company and family. No infringement intended.

Spoilers: Anything up to season 2 finale is game.

Feedback: Appreciated and rewarded with smiles. I'm not one who demands reviews "or else", but I do try to improve my stories, so honest criticism is welcomed.

Note: This story has been trying to write itself since the finale and I finally had to give in and help it out. I realize that there are a billion "post-kiss" stories, but hopefully you'll enjoy a "billion and one." This not a songfic, but like the show, the music is definitely central to the story and all of the chapter titles are from songs sung by Eva Cassidy. So, I highly suggest, no, implore you to go out and buy some of Eva's incredible music-_Songbird_ is a good place to start. ;) This chapter's lyrics are from "Say Goodbye," from _Eva By Heart_.

Edited on January 23, 2004... This chapter was originally posted in two parts, chapter 1 and chapter 3. After rereading it, I decided that it would probably work best as one chapter, so I'm reposting it. Tell me if you like it! 

Chapter 1:

_It's funny how the distance can make you feel close_

_And the things you lost are the things you want most_

_Must be the mood I'm in_

_I'm thinking of you again_

_I call you up just to tell you why_

_Why I left you and say goodbye..._

"Geez, Rory, what is it with your town? You're only going to be gone for six weeks and the whole place shows up for a fare-thee-well bash. I wish I was so adored." Paris complained again. The party had only delayed their departure by a half hour, yet Paris Gellar, never one to give an early death to a topic, had proceeded to fume angrily to anyone who would listen to her. And since Rory was presently the only other occupant of the car, she heard it all.

Rory suppressed a sigh. "Yeah. Stars Hollow loves an excuse for a party. If given a chance, they would celebrate over the fact that I got my hair cut. Besides, most of it was left-over from Sookie's wedding." Rory trailed off, suddenly homesick and lost in her own thoughts.

The silence lapsed in the car. Again. Ten minutes out of Stars Hollow, and the two girls seemed to be straining for conversation. It surprised Rory--Paris was not one that the word quiet or shy described. Normally, Rory would have welcome the quiet, but she found that her thoughts were wandering back to the wedding, the kiss, the way that she had avoided both Jess and Dean, the kiss, her party and Jess's absence or the way he bumped into her outside of Luke's as she was leaving and didn't say a word. Her painful goodbye with her mom. As the tears welled up her eyes, she forced herself to think of something else. The kiss...

She hadn't allowed herself to this about the kiss, or the reason for her temporary insanity (again). She had kept herself busy, finishing the school year and the final edition of the _Franklin_, packing for her summer away from home, helping Lorelai with the inn now that Sookie was off on her honeymoon, visiting her grandparents. Doing anything and everything to avoid the thought of that afternoon.

Now as the road breezed by, she was lured into those dangerous thoughts, thinking about how different and foreign the kiss felt. She was used to Dean-the way she reached up to kiss him, usually just a brief touch before she lowered her feet back to the ground. Jess was at lip-level: it had been more exhilarating than anything she had ever experienced. 

Thinking about the kiss was too confusing, the mixture of guilt and excitement still swirling around in her emotions. She turned her mind to something safer-her party. She had wandered through her party, absently thanking those who wished her luck in D.C.-Kirk asked her to take a tape to the F.B.I., but he wouldn't say what it was. Rory had her suspicions, but gratefully Lorelai had dragged her away before Kirk could complete "the deal." Miss Patty had asked her to get addresses from the "hunky senators," and Caesar, recluse diner-cook Caesar, had taken her aside and warned her in low tones to avoid getting drawn into any conspiracies. Dean had only been there for a moment, kissing her briefly, a sour look on his face as he headed back to work. He hadn't taken the news about her summer program well.

But the one face she hoped and dreaded to see was absent. No matter how many faces she squinted into focus or the painful leaps of adrenaline when she thought she saw his hair or his walk-it was never he. She hadn't seen him since the wedding a week before. He hadn't worked at Luke's-gossip hadn't even surfaced that he was back.

So, with disappointment, she had loaded up Paris's car with her belongings, kissed her mom goodbye, unable to say the words, and drove down the street. She made a spontaneous stop at Luke's, overriding Paris's protests. And he was there. Pouring coffee as usual. He didn't look at her, although she couldn't take her eyes off of him. Heart thumping wildly, she grabbed her coffee and headed out the door, brushing shoulders with him-

"Rory! Could you please pay attention to the road! No wonder you hit a deer!"

Rory was jolted back to the car. "A deer hit me. Besides, it's your car. Why am I driving?"

" I hate driving in the city." Paris barely looked up from the pamphlet she had been reading. 

"Paris, we're going to be in a city. Washington DC is very much a city."

"I know that."

"So, the reason that we're driving, rather than riding in the bus with the other Chilton students is, why, again?"

"I am not riding in a smelly bus for six hours. Besides, we may need the car."

"Whatever. Fine."

Paris continued as if not noticing Rory's rising bad mood. "According to the handouts, it looks like we will be in class three days a week. The other days will be spent experiencing first hand how our government functions. Oh! And look at this. We will each have a congressman who will sponsor us for a week!" Paris's normally clipped voice almost squealed. She stabbed the pamphlet with her finger.

"I can read, Paris. And yes, it's exciting, but it's still school. School that I did not want to do. And right now, I just don't want to think about more school." Rory turned her concentration back to the drive.

Paris ignored her. "We'll be staying on George Washington University campus in the Lafayette Hall, named after Georgie's adopted son or something like that Probably one of those old, run down buildings that people think are so cute because they're ancient and have 'historical value'."

"Oh, that sounds nice. Can you tell me about the asbestos risk next?" This time, Rory didn't even bother keeping the sarcasm out of her voice.

"You're not still bent out of shape that we actually won, are you? I'm sorry I ruined your perfect summer, but did you ever consider me? While you get to have bond with your mother over Paul Newman and trying to juggle all the guys who are interested in you, I would be at home, studying to avoid any interaction with my beloved parents. Rory, this is going to be the best summer of my life and I'm not going to let you ruin it before we even get out of Connecticut!"

"Okay, okay. Sorry. I'm just in a bad mood." She sighed.

"So I've noticed." Paris paused. "You want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Okay. Fine. But if you wanted to..."

"It's just that... Things haven't been so good for me and Dean and I just left without even really saying goodbye."

"'Me and Dean?'" Things must be pretty serious if you start using incorrect grammar. What's next, you're going to start sentences with 'all y'all'?"

Rory smiled slightly. She hadn't realized that Paris was capable of teasing.

"So, what happened? You and Dean seemed fairy tale perfect."

"We are. I mean, I don't know, and I'd rather not think about it. Not yet. Can we change the subject? Do you have any music?"

"No, all of my CDs are in the back. Do you have any in your backpack?" Without waiting for an answer, Paris picked up the bag from between their seats and unzipped the pockets.

"Paris! I don't have any here! I didn't say that you could..." Rory's voice faded as Paris pulled out a jewel case from the front pocket.

"_Songbird_, by Eva Cassidy. What kind of music?"

"I don't know. That's not my CD." She protested in confusion.

"There's a note on the cover. 'Rory--can't go to DC without listening to the music of the locals. Enjoy.' It's not signed." Paris looked over at her companion's suddenly flushed face. "Rory?"

"Yeah, that sounds okay. Eva Cassidy. Put her in." Her voice sounded hollow and she could hear the beat of her heart echoing in her ears. And why did her stomach suddenly have flutters? She recalled the brush of shoulders...he had said goodbye after all?

As Eva Cassidy's version of _Fields of Gold_ filled the car, Rory reflected that maybe, in spite of everything, the summer wasn't going to be so bad.

* * *

Eight hours later, Rory was starting to wonder if she had been too hasty in giving this summer a stamp of approval. For the first few hours, the drive had been non-eventful and for the first time in days, Rory had almost, virtually, well, not quite forgotten the events that had sent her on this trip. And the music was surprisingly calming-not what she expected from a CD from Jess. 

The peace hadn't lasted long though, as they hit the standstill traffic into the city, with Paris barking orders onto which of the many twisting highways to turn. Rory's city navigational skills were minimal at best-even visiting her grandparents only took to the outskirts of Hartford-and it wasn't long before her nerves were frayed. Three times they had gotten lost-turning down streets that appeared to lead to the university onto to have the weave into another one-way street that was crowded with eager tourists there to see the sites. By the time they finally found and pulled into a parking stall at George Washington University, it was late, and Rory wanted nothing more than to just get into bed and hope to wake up back in Stars Hollow.

No such luck. Somehow, she felt like she had managed to royally angring some nameless god as things steadily decline. The front-desk boy had been clueless about their arrival and only after talking with the resident advisor (who had to be paged), did they discover that Paris had misread the dates-the rest of their group wasn't arriving until the next day. With a tight smile, Rory had managed to sweet-talk the clerk into giving them their rooms early-the thought of going back into the traffic to somehow find a room for the night was nauseating-and finally dropped wearily onto one of the twin beds in their room, too tired to even look around or unpack her stuff. She pulled a book from her backpack, hoping to read a bit before falling into a deep, merciful sleep. 

Of course, Paris hadn't been willing to just shut up and go to bed and she was seemingly oblivious to the fact that Rory was trying to read. After an hour of listening to Paris complain-about the room (apparently, there was a tree right outside the window... oh the horrors!), the incompetent staff, the smallness of the room (which, to Rory looked fairly roomy for a dorm room. Nothing like Felicity's room, but that was television), the injustice of not making dates absolutely clear in the handouts-and making small one-word remarks back, she had just about decided to sleep in the car that night.

The conversation had evolved in the midst of a mouth full of toothpaste to Paris's expectations of the political world, and she had finally, climbed into the twin bed, still with the dorm bedding, and fallen promptly to sleep with visions of world dominations dancing around in her head.

Paris thankfully didn't snore, Rory noted, as she once again shifted her pillows. She closed her eyes firmly and willed her brain to shut down and sleep to come. It didn't happen. Frustrated, she opened her eyes, threw off her blankets and climbed out of bed.

Digging silently in her bag, she managed to locate the thirty feet phone cord her mother had purchased right before she left. She smiled briefly at the memory of her mom arguing, "of course you need a phone cord! You have to get a _really_ long one so you can make secret phone calls in the hall in the middle of the night and not worry about Paris discovering the dates you plan to take the SATs!" In the end, Lorelai's faulty logic had conquered and the phone cord was tucked in along with twenty sets of batteries and three prepaid phone cards.

Quietly, she attached the new cord, and tiptoed out of the room, closing the door softly behind her. The hallway was deserted and silent. Most of the students had gone straight to their rooms after the welcome reception.

She picked up the phone and made it as far as the area code before hanging up, fear rising in unison with disgust in her belly. She was such an idiot. What was she going to say to him? "Hi Jess, missing you already. Sorry for the kiss and go incident? By the way, could you tell Dean I say hi?" Yeah, that would go over well. He probably already hated her for running.

What was she doing? She was acting like she was talking to her sixth grade crush and worrying of whether he liked her or not. It was ridiculous! Kiss or no kiss, he was still her friend. Friend. That was it.

She picked up the handset again, and with shaking fingers, dialed the memorized numbers (how often had her fingers traced those numbers while he was gone, wishing that if she dialed him, he would be on the other end?), and listened to it ring once, twice.

"Yeah."

"You bought me a CD!" She exclaimed and instantly cringed at her abruptness. This was not how she had planned this to go.

"Huh. Most people say hello at the beginning of a conversation. Considered polite. A way to introduce who exactly is yakking away."

"Jess..."

"Of course, with caller ID, it may be unnecessary, but since Uncle Luke refused to get one of those "privacy traps," because, it takes the power out of the call, he says, calling people and having them know who he is, even those weak arguments don't hold up."

"Jess." She said again, and then stopped. "Hi."

She could almost hear his smile. "Hey to you, too. No, I did not buy you a CD. I lent you a CD, one that you had better return without a scratch on it. The case intact. Nothing I hate more than a broken case."

"Oh." A part of her was expected disappointed. No, she hadn't wanting him buying her gifts. She didn't, but the gesture had been so... sweet. 

"You like it?" He questioned lazily. 

"Yeah. I loved it. She's really good. Paris even liked it; we listened to it for the whole ride up."

"Good."

"It doesn't seem like the kind of music you'd like, though. There wasn't the beat of the drums and angry lyrics-oh, she was actually singing-- with words and everything!" She teased.

"Hey! Just because I got one kind of music that I listen to, to drive Luke mad, it doesn't mean that I don't have others. Your friend Lane's got nothing on me."

"Fine, be defensive." She was laughing loudly now. 

"So" he drawled. "How you been?"

"Good." She answered, stopping a flood of an answer that sprang to her lips. How she wanted to tell him about the horridness of her day, the regret for even coming. But she was the one who had called him, he surely didn't want to listen to her complain, especially since she still wasn't sure of why she had called.

"The conference?"

"So far, non-existent. Paris had the dates wrong, nobody's here until tomorrow. Then we'll have the mandatory 'meet and greet' dinner with superficial conversation served with the mashed potatoes."

A comfortable pause lingered over the phone. She could hear his bed squeak as he settled more comfortably into the cushions.

"What are you doing?" She asked.

"Talking to you." She could feel him smirk.

Rory smiled, "No, I mean, before."

"Reading."

She waited, the silence lengthening around her unspoken question and his refusal to answer. It was a game of chicken to see who would give in first, and hating the silence that ticked away the few minutes of connection, she spoke first. "What?"

"Lord of the Rings."

"Oh."

"Don't like it?"

"No, I didn't mean, I mean, it was a good movie."

"You've never read it." He sounded incredulous.

"No. I've been meaning to, but I don't know. I'm just not into fantasy." She finished lamely.

"Rory Gilmore, you are a literature snob." He laughed, a real deep laugh without the usual layers of sarcasm. 

"I am not!" She protested. 

"Admit it. You won't read it is because everybody else likes it and it's popular. Not one of your obscure, morose Russian authors, so you won't get it a chance."

She was quiet, startled by the insight that he had about her. He was right. Then, timidly, "So you like it then."

"Yeah. The Hobbit was one of the first long books I read in the third grade. For weeks after, I was Bilbo in search of a dragon's treasure. Liked it ever since. Read again every summer, 'cause the descriptions are beyond parallel. It's more than just a story about good against evil, it's the unsure against the ultimate and most subtle evils-fear and greed, and how we can't hope to conquer those evils unless we got friends to support us. The movie, the movie was good, but it missed much of that and turned it into the usual over-the-top Hollywood battlefield." He finished, his voice more animated than she had ever heard.

"Once again, not the response I was expecting. First Eva and now you're getting all sentimental. Are you a _Touched by An Angel_ fan too?"

"You call for a reason?" he said abruptly, more than a hint of annoyance filtering across the phone line. She ignored it. 

"I seem to remember a conversation with you, me and Paris where you admitted that you liked Jane Austen, too. Iz dar a widdle teddie bear under all dat webel?" She cooed, now smiling broadly. She hadn't had such good teasing fodder in a long time. 

"I'm going now." He threatened, but she thought she could also hear amusement in his tone. At least she hoped so. 

"Okay, okay, I'll stop! Sorry, it's just so...cute."

"You said you'd stop."

"That was it. Scout's honor." She smiled once more at the image of little Jess running around chasing dragons. "Okay. I'll give it a try."

"If you're nice," he heavily emphasized the word, "I'll lend it to you when you get back."

A sudden idea flitted across her brain, and something strange, deep down inside grasped hold of it tightly. "Um, actually, I mean, if you're reading it now, maybe you could read it aloud, some of it, I mean, if you want, you don't have to . . ." The rational side of her, which seemed to have a large lag time recently had kicked in. She was so silly sometimes! What had she been thinking? "Forget it, it's a silly question, I'll find a cop-"

"Rory. Sure. You comfortable?" At her affirmative, he cleared his throat. "The Fellowship of the Ring. Chapter 1: A Long-Expected Party. 'When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced...'"


	2. Dark clouds will gather 'round me

Disclaimer: Not mine. Lyrics: "A Poor Wayfaring Stranger" from _Eva by Heart._ Some of the conversation are quotes, taken directly or paraphrased, from _The X-Files_, episode 5X04, Detour, ‹ by Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. No infringement intended. Those who can guess which ones will earn an extra brownie point! Lafayette Hall and the student building, the Marvin Center, really do exist. However, the auditorium was my own invention (at least I hope so!).

Many, many thanks to the people who reviewed and critiqued the first chapter. Your words are much appreciated. Please send comments and corrections to jcd1013@yahoo.com. I love reviews!

Like Never Before

Chapter 2:

_I am a poor wayfaring stranger _

_While journeying through this world of woe... _

_I know dark clouds will gather 'round me, _

_I know my way is rough and steep..._

Paris tapped her fingers impatiently against the counter and resisted looking at her watch again. That incompetent clerk, if a freshman boy with zits could aspire to that title, had left her four minutes ago, with little indication that he was going to get the manager as he professed. She hated dealing with people who really shouldn't risk stepping outside in case their few remaining brain cells blew away. And of course, Rory had made some excuse of getting the rest of the bags from the car and had left her to argue with the clerk about the rooms. 

She sighed. If today was any sign, it was going to be a really long six weeks. Yes, she was happy to be here, but the thought of rooming with Rory, in a too small dorm room, was upsetting, especially now since it looked like she was going to be moody about the whole thing. The tension in the car yesterday had lightened up after Rory had discovered the CD--in fact, Rory had talked about the latest Stars Hollow scandal, where Luke had put up a "No Taylors Allowed" sign in his cafŽ. He professed that it was an honest misspelling and that he had the right to serve who he chose, but Taylor was still furious. Paris also had opened up and they had chatted quite pleasantly about places they wanted to visit someday. 

But the friendly atmosphere had faded by the time they hit the city. Paris had watched the anger sweep across Rory's face when she found out that the dates were mixed up (why couldn't people have things marked clearly on packets?! How hard is it to make sure that the day matched the date) and it did not bode well for the rest of the trip. Yes, she had made a tiny mistake, but it wasn't the end of the world. Actually, Paris preferred arriving like this-plenty of time to scope out the locations, without all of the sweat and anxiety as they hurried around like lost little sheep. And because of their early arrival, they would now get the best room-that is if pimple boy would ever come back. 

In all honesty, she didn't know how she felt about Rory. Two years they had known each other, and she still didn't know if she could classify Rory under the "friends" category. Deep down, she had this nagging feeling that the only reason Rory spent anytime with her was because she pitied her. At least with Madeline and Louise, Paris knew exactly where she stood with them-the bonds of kindergarten and money holding their relationship together. They might think that she was uptight and power hungry, and she may get irritated at their immature behavior, but they knew each other well enough that it really didn't matter. But with Rory... In some strange way, she had become a charity case for Rory. Paris was almost nervous at the thought of spending six weeks with the girl, only to have her go home and sigh to her mother how relieved she was to be out of her company.

Wonderful. The boy had been gone long enough for her to completely psychoanalyze her friendship with Rory. And people wondered why she was so terse.

"Excuse me?? I recall I asked for some assistance! Did you get lost? Perhaps I should come back there and-"

"Miss Gellar? I'm the resident advisor. I understand there is a problem?" 

Finally! She turned to the man, pasting her most professional "I Mean Business" look on her face. "A problem? Yes, there is a problem. There is a tree outside the room that I am booked in. I am allergic to trees. Trees block the sun, preventing me from studying. I have to study. I need a new room."

"Ms. Gellar, let's see. You're from Chilton, right? Hmm, you and Lorelai Gilmore are the only females from your school attending. It looks like a girl from Ohio is missing a roommate and she has a room on the fourth floor, but that's the only one available. You could room with her." He paused, his finger posed above the keyboard, ready to make the necessary changes.

Paris panicked. While living with Rory might not be the ideal situation, it surely beat staying with some unknown girl from Ohio or wherever. For the first time in her life, Paris backed down. "No! No, I suppose the room will have to do. Thank you." She grabbed the key from the table and pivoted on her heel, intent on making a quick break away. 

She could have killed herself. He was moments away from breaking down; she could sense the cracks in his matter-of-fact exterior. A minute more and she could have argued to just switch rooms entirely. It wasn't like any one else had arrived; no one would even know. But she had had a moment of weakness and hadn't even pursued it.

The summer seemed to stretch infinitely before her.

Pairs peered out the glass doors, looking for Rory. A bus had pulled in while she was haggling for the room--it appeared that the other students had arrived, for teenagers milled around the parking lot of the dorms, while college students (yep, more freshmen) wearing brightly colored t-shirts tried to organize them into groups. Paris quickly scanned the crowd. Yes, there she was--the woman who was in charge. She was wearing a red t-shirt, which proclaimed in loud letters "Head Cheese" and seemed to be directing the younger students as she pulled boxes from her van.

Paris pressed forward, picking her way through the crowd. If she could introduce herself to the head lady, there was a chance that this trip could be salvaged. She could get a packet and look over the conference, as well as find out about any materials she might need. 

Her face intent and determined, she failed to notice the spiraling football, or the lanky boy chasing after it. Until they both simultaneously slammed into her.

She actually saw stars, little flecks of light that moved across the fuzzy black. Her befuddled mind tried to process what exactly it meant, but she could only concentrate on the fact that _she must not fall in front of all of these people! _Somehow, she managed to keep her balance, although she stumbled hard into people gathered behind her. She closed her eyes, trying to process the pain, as murmurs of concerns filtered into her ears. She groaned, and slowly opened her eyes, seeking out something to focus on. Faces swarmed in and out of focus, but the one that she noticed was bent close to her, mumbling over and over again "I'm really, really sorry, I didn't see her" and "oh, man, she's going to kill me." Brad looked pale and sick. He turned green as he noticed Paris focus her steely gaze on him.

One of the perky young counselors ran up, holding a portable first aid kit, (one that didn't look nearly as functional as her own design) and tried to move her away from the crowd. Clucking "oh you poor dear, let's get you inside" as if she was Paris's grandmother, she felt her forehead. Embarrassment flooded Paris's body, blood rushing to redden her face and ears. Great, this was just how she wanted to be introduced to every one, by some hen-mother freshman, who obviously had extremely little training in first aid. 

"I'm fine!" She snapped, brushing off the girl and straightening her shirt. Her face must have convinced her that she meant business, because the girl scuttled off quickly after the obligatory "Well, if you're sure?" exchange. Paris noted, with a grimace and a wave of anger, that Brad had also taken the opportunity to disappear. It was just as well. She was in the mood to strangle someone.

Purposefully, she swiveled and strolled back into the dorm lobby, head held high, holding tears back with determined practice. Hopefully, Rory would have some aspirin. She could sense a roaring headache developing.

* * *

Paris marched determinedly to the front of the room. Good, there were still seats available, although she would have to settle for ones more on the left than she would have liked.

"Do we have to sit so close?" Rory's voice was almost a whine, and Paris glanced back momentarily at her roommate who was rubbing her sleepy eyes. 

"Yes. That way we can take good notes and get into productive small groups if necessary. It's the only way to let the teachers know that you are one of the people actually here to work, not play. Have you forgotten that Harvard wants letters of recommendation too?" She barked impatiently, shifting the pile of notebooks to the empty desk.

"Couldn't we at least stop for coffee? Paris, I'm going to be falling asleep and it's going to look really bad if I do that on the front row."

"Fine. You go, I'll wait here and save your seat. Maybe next time, you'll actually wake up on time." But Rory had already left and missed her departing remarks.

She was angry and rather resentful. The incident with Brad yesterday had turned into more than just a sign of doom for the summer-more like prophecy fulfilled. Most of the afternoon had swirled around the other students locating their new homes for the summer and unpacking, but the dinner, the dinner that she had so looked forward to, had been a complete waste. Rory had disappeared after gulping down her food and the only conversation she had initiated had been interrupted by Brad's profuse apologies. She tried coolly brushing him off, but finally had to resort to barking at him to make him leave-and her conversation partner had quickly followed suit. There went her one chance to salvage this summer and make it different.

So, she had given up and headed for their small, tree-infected room, hoping to at least talk to Rory, see if she had any ideas about how to deal with the situation. Rory was so much better at these social situations. But Rory had been on the phone, and when she finally got off, she had ignored Paris's attempts to converse. And finally, Paris let the words fade into silence and readied for bed. Perhaps tomorrow would be better.... Sleep was a long time coming, interrupted by Rory's giggles on the phone outside their room.

She had been up at dawn, not needing an alarm to awaken. While Rory seemed to be the type who would get up early to read Walden by the pale light, (although having been witness to this morning's Without-Coffee-Rory, she honestly couldn't see Rory doing that either), for Paris it was simply that she detested being late and rushed. Too many of her memories of elementary school revolved around trying to awaken her mother from her alcohol-induced slumber and the subsequent embarrassment as she walked into class forty minutes late, her hair unbrushed, shoes untied. The day that she had been deemed old enough to walk to school by herself, she had vowed never to be late again. Of course by that time her parents had decided that raising a child hampered their personal lives and she spent most of the time with her nanny anyway. She never mourned the fact.

Paris had showered and dressed, choosing her clothing with regards to the high likelihood of no air conditioning in the auditorium that they were meeting in, while also remaining professional. She'd left to grab some breakfast, bagels without cream cheese, and had come back, slamming the door each time. She had even blown dried her hair and Rory had slept through it all.

She had debated whether or not just to leave her-Rory didn't expect her to wake her up every morning, did she? She wasn't going to be her nursemaid or mother or anything. And she hated touching people when they were asleep. What if she jumped or screamed? But she couldn't leave her, so she settled for kicking the bed and loudly calling her name. It had worked; Rory had frantically dressed, ignoring her roommate's pointed comments.

Lafayette Hall, the place that the students were staying, was right next to the student center where they were meeting that morning, so thankfully Paris didn't feel flushed when they walked into the room, a large, "theater-style" auditorium, decorated with cherubic pink angels that the early fifties had obsessed about. It was sickening. Paris resolved on the spot to remove George Washington from her college backup list-there was no way that she could spend four years in a room like this.

With a final involuntary shudder at those stupid angels, Paris surreptitiously glanced around the room, grateful for a chance to finally observe the other students. They didn't seem to remember yesterday's incident; at least none were pointing or whispering in her direction. She felt relief and a surge of anger that she actually cared what they thought.

As was always the case, the "cliques" had already started forming-the class clowns, "let's see how much disruption we can cause" were gathered up near the top, laughing over some kind of picture. The juvenility of the male species was beyond her comprehension. A few of the "couldn't leave until my makeup was perfect" girls were seated behind her a few rows. Paris squinted and decided that one looked like Louise with a bad hair dye-that horrible tin-color red, which just screamed "For Sale, Cheap!" 

There were the loners scattered across the room, carefully placed so that the seat on each side was empty. In the center rows were clustered the ones who decided that sitting next to someone they at least knew was preferred-people who under normal circumstances would never dream of acknowledging with a nod. She spied the four other Chilton students doing just that. Brad sat by a sophomore boy (Paris vaguely remembered that he was some sort of baseball superstar in the school-Tad? Ted? She'd never taken the time to learn his name before, and you know, it really didn't bother her). Brad paled as he noticed her glance and Baseball Boy, following his glance, timidly put up a hand in a mini-wave, his eyes bulging like a deer's caught in the headlights. Paris turned away after a searing lookdown at Brad; there was no way she was letting him ruin her day.

Only one or two looked like possibilities, those who were actually here to learn and would be worthwhile in a small group setting. She mentally committed to approaching the girl sitting kitty-corner behind her: her notebooks were plain and opened, completely doodle-free, a fresh, attentive look on her face as she coolly looked around her. She made eye contact with Paris and smiled slightly.

Paris relaxed and gave her first non-scowl of the day back. So far, immature boys aside, things didn't look so bad. She pulled out the pamphlet again and scanned over it and felt the initial excitement build back up in her bloodstream.

Rory slid into the seat just as the woman, whom she had dubbed the Head Cheese the day before, walked up to the front of the auditorium, minus the tacky tee-shirt. Although she had introduced herself at the welcome dinner the night before, her name had evaporated from Paris's memory. It took a minute for the rest of her peers to realize that someone in authority was trying to talk to them-the noise level slowly drained to silence.

The woman smiled. "I know we did the unofficial welcome last night, but let me say again how excited we are to have you here.

"I'm Susanne Krum, director of the Auxiliary Government for Youth, a non-profit organization through which students participate in workshops designated to teach the purpose and responsibilities of the government. As you are probably aware, voter turnout was at an all-time low for the 18 to 25 age group. Part of the reason for this apathy is believed to be due to a lack of information and understanding that one vote can have power. Florida should have proved that, but apparently teenagers had thick skulls."

Paris groaned silently. It was way too early in the morning for cutesy humor and frankly, the last thing she wanted was six weeks of lectures on her patriotic duty to vote.

"You should receive a packet containing all of the material for this course-I think Mary is passing them out right now." She paused, as the college girl scuttled forward and began handing out large folders. Paris opened it up and began to pour over the material-colored papers with a detailed schedule for each week, pamphlets outlining the AGY's mission and a bunch of brochures on the wonderful charms of DC.

Head Cheese continued as if she didn't notice the increase buzz in the room. "Some of you will notice that the itinerary has changed from what was given to you earlier. Due to the overwhelming support from the politicians, along with considerable financial support, the last three weeks of the course you'll be working as an intern in various political offices. This is an opportunity to which no other student in the United States will be privileged. You'll receive your assignments later. No consideration will be given to your own political beliefs in these placements-you are here to learn about how the government functions, from the formation of a bill to its presentation in the different branches until it becomes law. You will put aside any biases that you may have picked up from your parents, teachers or peers." She stopped again and stared hard at the students. Paris met her glance firmly. 

"Make no mistake. You are some of the brightest students from around the country, but now you are here on a college campus, earning college credit and therefore we expect that you will work hard."

The stare downs were starting to get really annoying.

"However, we do want you to have fun-after all, we are right next door to one of the greatest American treasures there is." She beamed, which supposedly was the cue for the cheerleader chorus to come and join her. That started a whole round of cheerful introductions from the "community facilitators"-the cutesy name given to the college counselors. So much for the non-camp environment.

The endless parade was finally over, to Paris's infinite relief. She stretched her aching arms, glancing over at Rory. Rory was drawing absentmindedly on her notebook, a vague smile plastered on her face. Obviously she hadn't heard a word of what was going on. But now that introductions were over, they would finally start doing something productive. She opened up the folder, pulled out the schedule, skimming over it quickly. Opening session: introduction of so-and-so, more introduction and.... Oh no. She pulled it close to her face, squinting. It didn't actually say that-

"Okay, so I'm Kimberly and while we call ourselves community facilitators, you don't think of yourselves as neighbors yet, do you? Well, you won't be able to say that by this evening! So for the rest of the morning, we're going to be doing some team building exercises and believe me, you're going to be building muscles you didn't even know you had! Because before we become a community, we have to have _Communication_. That's the key!" The girl put on a ninety-watt grin.

Paris couldn't even close her mouth, which had dropped in disbelief. Kimberly was shouting out orders for everyone to depart according to the color of folder, but Paris's mind was numb. She gathered her things and walked up the steps, oblivious to whether Rory was behind her or not. This could not be happening. 

Dimly she heard the Louise-look-alike squeal. "Oh, we did this last year at cheer camp. We had two minutes to build a tower out of ordinary sports equipment. When I stood on Jen's shoulder and I put that roster on the top of the pile, we both knew, we could never have done it alone."

Her dreams for the summer were gone, instead she found herself in a nightmare, one that showed no signs of ending. Was it too late to go home? Hartford and negligent parents seemed like heaven.

She bumped into a shoulder and looked up to see the petrified face of Brad. "Oh, hi, um, Paris, I see... I see you have a blue folder too. We're, we're on the same team, I guess." He stammered. And who said God didn't have a sense of humor?

"Kill me now." She breathed as she walked out into the blinding sunlight. Only forty days left. Only forty. In two hours it would be thirty-nine and a half. The countdown began.

Really short AN: Okay, so we've got our Narcoleptic's, the Java Junkies', the Trory's, and Literati's. I've been thinking that we should start a new "couple" classification--Paris and Brad should be called Peanut Butter. Whadda think? I'm fond of Jamie, but I think there's a reason that Brad has been a rather frequent recurrent character.... J


	3. Life is for learning

Disclaimer: Not mine. Lyrics from "Woodstock" _Time After Time_. Quote taken from _The Fellowship of the Ring_, "A Conspiracy Unmasked." Some of the Tolkien discussion was inspired from the Internet mailing group that I moderator at Yahoo!Groups, LOTR Inklings. I especially need to acknowledge Teanna's wonderful essay "To The Sea: Mediations on the Sea-Longing" which you can read here at ff.net, under her profile. It's absolutely incredible and describes so powerfully what I was only able to fumble towards. 

A big thanks to the four people who reviewed the last chapter, your words meant so much! So this chapter is dedicated to Jamie, Holly Gilmore, Kimlockt, and Kairbear. You guys are the best!

Like Never Before

Chapter 5

_And I feel like I'm a part_

_Of something turning round and round_

_And maybe it's the time of year_

_Maybe it's the time of man_

_And I don't know who I am_

_But life is for learning ..._

"'...Suddenly he found he was out in the open. There were no trees after all. He was on a dark heath, and there was a strange salt smell in the air. Looking up he saw before him a tall white tower, standing alone on a high ridge. A great desire came over him to climb the tower: but suddenly a light came in the sky, and there was a noise of thunder.'" Jess finished, his voice rising slightly on the last phrase, startling Rory out of her stupor.

"What, you're stopping there?"

"End of the chapter. And you were asleep." He responded dryly.

"No, I'm awake." She fought the yawn that tried to escape and failed. She heard him laugh.

"You make a lousy liar. I heard you snore."

"I didn't snore!"

"I outta go, so you can get your sleep. It's late."

She resisted looking at her watch and firmly ignored her numb tailbone. Sitting on the hallway floor was not the most comfortable position, but Paris had gone to bed early. "No, it's not bad. I'll be okay. It's a light day tomorrow."

"It's after midnight. And you present your platform for your party tomorrow." Blast him and his perfect memory!

"I'll con Paris into covering for me."

"Things better with you and her?" he asked with concern.

"I don't know. I mean, it's always been weird between us. I only agreed to come out her because she guilted me into thinking I needed it for my applications. But this is bizarre. When we first got here, she talked to me nonstop, not caring if I cared, not listening to anything _I_ had to say. I had to listen to her complain for an hour about how the quality of Chilton has gone downhill since they changed their policies-which, by the way, is how I got in, so how can I help but take that as an insult? But even that was better than it is now... 

"Now, we're roommates and yet we don't say a word to each other, at least not directly. We go to class together, sit next to each other, come home, do homework. I usually go and talk to a few of the girls down the hall for a bit, she practices application essays. I call you, she goes to bed. Wake up, repeat in morning. End of story. It's been three days, Jess, and nary a word. You know how much I love to talk, heck, even she would talk my ear off normally." She ranted, picking at the fuzz of her pajamas, relieved to finally get this off her chest.

"You try, you know, opening your mouth, making a sound? Works like a charm and available without a prescription."

She laughed. "Yes and then the words freeze there or something. And it's not like she's mad at me, at least I don't think so. I've seen 'Beyond Livid Paris' and it's not pretty; she's not hesitant about making her feelings known. This is different."

"She's probably scared of you. You're pretty terrifying."

"Terrifying, huh?" Sheesh, she was already starting to talk like him!

"Yeah. The way you eat chicken, it'd scare, well, they couldn't even show that on Fox's "When Wild Beasts Attack" show, too traumatic." He baited with that infuriating mock serious voice of his. 

"Is that right?" 

"Yep. You're pretty dangerous when it comes to your wings."

"Huh, well, I guess that's another talent to add the resume."

He became serious. "Don't worry about it, Ror. You'll figure each other out eventually. If all else fails, you could always dye her hair blue when she's asleep."

"And exactly how would that help?" She was laughing hysterically, trying to muffle the giggles so as to not wake anyone up. 

"You'd definitely get some words out of her."

She collapsed in giggles, her laughs echoing with his. After several minutes of deep chuckles that were starting to hurt her stomach, she straightened up with a sigh.

He heard her. "I gotta go now."

"You don't even want to know what I thought about the chapter?" She said, ignoring what he said. 

"Alright. Tell me, Rory, what did you think about the chapter?"

"I liked it." She grinned impishly. She wasn't her mother's daughter for nothing and one thing she knew-the men of the Danes family got so irritated with glib remarks.

"That's it?"

"Yep. You?"

"I told you to read it, remember?" The sarcasm was layered three levels deep. Nobody could do distain like Jess. 

"Right, so that means you must have some opinion. Come on, what great insights has Jess Mariano written in the margins of his book?"

"You're never asked before." He said slowly. Embarrassment colored his tone; he sounded rather uncharacteristically hesitant.

"It's not like I can read over your shoulder here. What did you write?" She pressed, now really desiring to here what he thought.

There was a pause and then a faint rustling. "Beginning of the chapter, where the hobbits are crossing the river, I've written," he cleared his throat with a dramatic harrumph, "'First mention of water archetype: birth-death-resurrection. Creation; purification and redemption; fertility and growth. River represents flowing of time into eternity; transitional phases of the life cycle, change.' Wanna know that I underlined _change_ twice?"

"Archetype?" She questioned; it sounded familiar, but she had lost much of what she had learned at her prep school the past year.

"Universal symbol, found across cultures. Mother Earth, Father Sky kind of thing."

"Okay. So why is the water archetype important?"

"Tolkien hated allegory, irritated him. His friend, C.S. Lewis, that's all he wrote."

She interrupted, his mind whirling through the memories of books past. "The guy who wrote _The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe_?" 

"Yeah, that's him. It didn't take more than 20 pages to figure out that Aslan's supposed to be Jesus Christ. He didn't even try to disguise it." Jess didn't bother disguising his disgust either.

"Yeah, I figured that out at age 10, and I probably hadn't been to Sunday School for a year. _The Great Divorce_ was better, however. "

"Whatever, he's still a nut."

"So this has to with Tolkien and archetypes, how exactly?"

"It's not Tolkien's style. He got pissed when people tried to make connections between Sauron and Hitler, or that he was writing a political novel about of World War II."

"So if it's not an allegory, what would you classify it as?"

"Modern mythology that explores these archetypes. See, Tolkien's an English professor, and he dedicated his life to the study of the myths-Norse, German, Greek, whatever. He wanted a modern retelling of those myths. He didn't purposely say: 'I'm going to write a story and use Jungian mythological symbols to convey my meaning;' he wrote what he knew and loved." His voice took on the excited teacher-with-the-pointer enthusiasm that still surprised her. After many one-syllable conversations with him, this Jess still took a few minutes to adjust to.

"So what does this have to do with water?"

"Water's one of Tolkien's favorite tools for his brand of subtle symbolism. Much of the Lord of the Rings involves some element of water."

"Such as?"

"Nope, can't tell you, would spoil the books. You gotta keep your eyes open for them." She could hear his languid grin spread across his face. "Just think about water. Life requires it, just a few days without it and you're toast. And yet, it can completely destroy you at the same time, by a flood or by not catching on at summer camp. Can't fight its power, it's the great force of the universe. Yet, hard to grasp that when it's a little puddle on the ground. 

"Anyway, back to this chapter, there's this short paragraph where Sam is reflecting on how he's never been in a boat before. It says, here I'll read it again: 'he had a strange feeling as the slow gurgling stream slipped by: his old life lay behind in the mists, dark adventure lay in front. He scratched his head, and for a moment had a passing wish that Mr. Frodo could have gone on living quietly at Bag End.' In this paragraph, the stream's this change that Sam has to experience-it's sweeping him along and suddenly he realizes that everything will be different and yet there's nothing he can do but accept it."

"Wow, that's a cool idea. I guess I've never really looked for connections like that before."

"You haven't?"

"Not really. I mean, I remember when we studied _The Scarlet Letter_ in school, before Chilton. The teacher harped on and on about the symbolism of that rose outside of the prison that I couldn't bear to pick up the book again." 

"You ever feel like that?" Jess asked.

"Like not reading a book again? Only rarely."

"No, like you've reached this point of transition in your life. A crossroads. Like you have to decide to either get in the water or go back to Bag End." 

Rory smiled. Trust Jess to take symbolism and personalize it. "I think so," she pondered the question more deeply. "It's hard to say. I can't remember any big crossroads that I've encountered recently, but then I've heard that you don't always recognize the most significant moments of your life while they're happening to you."

"No fork in your road, huh? No 'Road Less Traveled'?"

"Not really, nothing that I can remember, anyway." Her mind circled back trying to recall some major occurrences. Deciding to go to Chilton, coming here... It dawned on her what event he might be referring to. He didn't want to talk about _that_, did he? They hadn't ever brought it up and Rory had been more than relieved. But why would he bring it up now? A sinking feeling gnawed at her stomach.

"So, if you came to that crossroads, something different, what would you do?" He pressed, his voice still serious and probing.

"I've never really thought about it before. I guess, I'd look around, you know, analyze all the different directions, check out the roads, figure out what I want, where I want to go and then I'd pick one. And hope for the best." She said quickly, hoping that it would stop the conversation.

"Sounds like a time consuming process."

"I suppose. But, what's that famous quote, 'marry in haste, repent in leisure'? I mean, not that we're talking marriage here, that would be scary, but it's good advice in any case." She giggled nervously. He didn't join her.

"Huh," Jess replied, his voice strained. "Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you just don't like change? That you won't even look to see if you're at a stream?"

"What do you mean?" The direction of the conversation had definitely changed, and Rory was at a lost on how to get things back to something less...worrisome. 

"Why do you read, Rory?" His voice had taken on a somber tone that she was unable to read

"I like to, I guess. Should I have more of a reason?" She questioned, still slightly uncomfortable. 

"You always have a book. Entertainment? As an escape?" The derisive tone tore at her. Incredulous at the abrupt change in him, she gripped the phone in bewilderment. 

"I don't know, a whole bunch of reasons, I guess. It's different for every book, author. I've never thought about it, really. I just do, I have since I was a kid; Mom used to joke-" He cut off her ramblings. 

"Come on, Rory!" Now he really was angry and he made no pretense of hiding it. She clinched the phone cord tightly. "Your world is so perfect, why would you need to seek solace in your books? Is it just because you like it or are you trying to check out of life for a while? You live in a cotton candy world, full of fluffy sugary sweetness. You have your whole life mapped out! Harvard, a world-class reporter, a picket fenced house with a trophy husband to boot. It's what you've always wanted and you're afraid to even look and see if that's changed, if you've changed!"

His anger hurt her and she could only stammer, "That's not...I mean-"

He interrupted her. "Are you still with Dean?"

"What?" A numb feeling spread from her fingers and she couldn't shake the emotion of dread.

"Is he your boyfriend?"

"Yes! You know that!"

'And yet, you call me every night. Why? Have you even asked yourself that question? Or are you afraid of the answer?"

"Jess, I don't understand. What's-"

"You kissed me! We've been dancing around this for weeks, refusing to bring it up, pretending that it didn't even happen! But it did, and face it, Rory, it means that things aren't as hunky-dory with Bag-boy as you pretend. And you know what I think-you're standing on the edge of your own personal river and you're too scared to even get on the boat, never mind seeing if you actually enjoy the ride."

"And what about you?" She countered angrily, her voice rising. "You go on pretending that you despise everyone around you, that the world had given you this horrible deal, just because you're scared to let anyone close, to let anyone care." The tears gathered force behind her eyelids, but she forced them back. She would not let him hear her cry. Down the hall, a girl peeped out of her room, then shut the door tightly behind her. Rory ignored her, not caring how many people she awoke.

"Hey, I've always been completely open about how I feel about you, but it's you who doesn't care. In fact, I moved back to this stupid town of yours and you just ran away!"

She sucked in her breath, pain stabbing at her chest. She didn't say anything. A long, oppressive, cloistering silence descended over the phone line.

Finally she spoke, quietly, tears now streaking down her face. "I can't handle this right now."

He was bitter. "Yeah, well, until you've got things figured out, I don't think I want to talk to you."

She dropped the phone to the cradle in a rush. Dumbly, she opened the door to her room. She placed the phone back on the desk, crawled into bed, pulling the sheet tight around her. She stared at the ceiling. Paris murmured something in her sleep, but Rory didn't hear her, for her thoughts pounded madly away in her brain.

* * *

Rory stood on the edge of the Potomac, staring down into the sluggish river. The edges reflected with green from the grass and trees waving softly in the breeze, the sounds of the few tourists muffled in the early summer heat. Across the banks she could see Arlington Cemetery, misty through the heat and smog, Robert E. Lee's House standing guard over the city. She made a mental note to visit the cemetery on her next afternoon, and then turned her attention back to the river.

It was Saturday. Her first Saturday here, although she felt like she had lived an eternity in that one week. Her dorm counselor ruled by the mentality that they were nearly adults and had informed them that they could do whatever they wanted with their weekends as long as it was legal and they were back for bed count that night. The dorms had promptly emptied out. Paris had latched onto her group and insisted that they rewrite the draft for their proposal for next week. Rory had been more than slightly relieved; the thought of spending the day with Paris had been unbearable.

Unsure about the Metro system, she had walked down from the campus to the National Mall. Her plans earlier that week had included visits to a couple of the Smithsonian museums, but after she had walked listlessly through the Lincoln Memorial, barely looking up to read the engraved inscriptions, she had made her way down to the waterfront instead.

The river was slow here, wide and lazy as it flowed on to join the ocean, miles downstream. She plopped down on the ground underneath a friendly birch, resting her head in her hands, unable to move her eyes from the drifting waters. She felt troubled, disquiet deep inside that she was unable to even completely acknowledge, and the worst part was, she knew exactly why she had felt that way. It amounted to more than just lack of sleep, although staying up until one or two every night to talk to Jess all week and then up again at six was not productive to healthy thinking. And that had been before all the drama.

Just the thought of Jess made her stomach queasy. It had been two days since her argument with Jess; two impossibly long days. The nightly conversations had become ritual and she had missed him abominably. It was almost weird how comfortable their banter and discussions had become. Somehow, in a week, he had slipped into the position of confidant and best friend and she wasn't sure why that terrified her. Her mother had always had that spot in her life. Even as much as she loved Lane, she had always ranked her second.

And in just five days that had changed. She had called Jess when she would have called her mother just two months ago. Yeah, sure, she talked to her mom frequently, close to every night, but she found herself censoring the conversation, not telling her certain things because she had already told Jess.

Jess's accusations had more than hurt. Yesterday, she had been so angry at him for blowing up, over what? Because she didn't go looking for arcane meaning in every book she read? Because she read purely because she enjoyed it? Because she didn't want to think about what her link with Jess really was? It grated at her, gnawed at her thoughts, festered in her soul and she said goodbye to him with good riddance. Her mother was right, Stars Hollow was right: he was just a self-absorbed jerk.

The anger drained in her second sleepless night and she cursed herself for her selfish, thoughtless actions. It was she who had been the jerk, the one who had, what was the phrase, "strung him along." She couldn't blame him for being upset, but the night had ended before she had been able to sort through her tangled web of emotions.

So, she found herself on the edge of the Potomac, gazing into the water, thinking about what Jess had said. Water was an archetype for change, he said, and she was afraid of change, afraid of breaking up with Dean. 

Dean. She sat for a moment and thought of Dean, thought about the first moment when she had noticed him, really noticed him, the way that his green eyes lit up when he saw her. The warm feeling in her belly the first time he had kissed her. When she told him that she loved him. The many sweet, tender things that he had done for her. He adored her, she knew that and she was happy with him. He had understood when she left for DC, quiet and disappointed but he knew about her aspirations. Yes, she had left before they had talked about it completely, but that was normal-she had already gotten a letter from him and a postcard had been sent back the next day. 

But she had kissed Jess. And she still didn't know why. Since they had started talking, she didn't have any desire to kiss him. His conversation and companionship satisfied her. It wasn't like she was still attracted to him, was it? Ever been attracted to him, right? Oh, he was cute; a weak word for even now seeing his face in her mind, she couldn't deny that there was something very attractive about him and his dark hair and piercing eyes. So maybe on some level, there had been something there, but she certainly wasn't thinking about him and her in a relationship... She certainly didn't wonder what he wore to bed or what it would be like to kiss him again (she snapped her mind shut when it pursued that thought a little too far). No, she didn't think about him like that! It was his friendship that she had missed when he moved to New York, and she had just been incredibly happy to see him, right? 

It was too difficult. Yes, she could admit that she had feelings for Jess, friendship feelings that she didn't completely understand, but that didn't change the fact that she loved Dean. 

_Water archetype for change._

None of this was altering the growing awareness that she didn't know what she wanted. It was true, she had planned out her life since before she was twelve. Chilton had been a surprise, but it still was on that path, that dream she had sought since she had first seen Christiane Amapour on CNN. She had spent her whole summer that year watching Amapour cover the desperate situations in Rwanda and Bosnia. Her heartfelt, passionate reporting tugged at Rory and she had been filled with the desire to do that herself. She had never looked back, never doubted her fate in life.

_Water archetype for change._

She had been disturbed with doubts since coming here, even before Jess had confronted her; she just hadn't bothered to let them bother her-they were tiny gnats that she swatted away without a second thought. The other girls in her dorm chatted merrily about the different schools that they were applying to, arguing about which was the best major to get into, what they had heard about the application process. A few had ideas about what they wanting to do after college; most brushed it off and said that they'd probably change majors six times anyway. She had squirmed slightly at their gaping looks when she said she was only considering Harvard-and then could not give a better reason than it was a good school. Paris would have said those girls were the "Madeline and Louise's", who would always be wishy-washy, but Rory hadn't been so sure. She had felt rather...immature and out of the whole process. And that bothered her.

Why did she want to go to Harvard? The million-dollar question weighed on her mind. Was it just because it was a dream of hers? It had been fun seeing the campus, pretending that she belonged there, but in all honesty, she had gotten that same feeling from GWU too. College, that's what felt right.

_Water archetype for change._

She sighed. Nothing was becoming any clearer. The only thing she knew was that she didn't know anything. Her thoughts continued to swirl as she gazed down at the river.

* * *

The day had become twilight by the time she returned to the dorms. She walked in, placed her backpack carefully on her desk. She pulled out a copy of _The Divine Comedy_ from one of the pockets and plopped on her bed to read. The phone rang only moments later and she was unable to repress the fear (or the thrill at the same time) of who might be on the other end, never mind the fact that she knew quite well that he didn't have her number.

"Rory!" Her mom's voice reached over the phone and Rory felt as if her mother had given her a gigantic hug that bowled her over. Waves of homesickness flooded her and she had to choke back tears that suddenly were there.

"Mom!"

"You are never leaving me again, do you here me?" She threatened, the emotion also thick in her voice.

"What about college?" Rory regained control and smiled. It was so good to talk to her, her best friend and mom.

"I'm going to be your roommate, remember." Her mother teased back.

"And when I married?"

"First of all, you're never getting married and second of all, hello, that's where all the good sitcoms come from, with the good live-in mother-in-law repartee."

"Name one."

"Um, _Everybody Loves Raymond_."

"In-laws live next door, and I said good ones."

"_Mad About You_?" She replied cautiously.

"Nope. Not even close," Rory adamantly shook her head.

"Well, I thought she reminded me of your grandma. _Lavern and Shirley_!"

"What? No! Where'd you come up with that? That doesn't even fit at all!" 

Lorelai laughed. "So what have you been up to, my dearly departed daughter?"

"You make me sound like I'm dead." Rory grumbled, deciding instantly that bringing up her problems with Jess wouldn't be a good idea. Since she had never mentioned that she was talking to Jess, it probably wouldn't go over that well. "It's been good. Just studied basic government functions. Next week we're putting together a bill."

"A duck's bill or a platypus?"

"No, silly, a bill for Congress. And oh, I got to tour the FBI yesterday."

"Really? Run into Mulder and Scully?"

"Unfortunately not. They must work someplace other than the first floor."

"Duh! They work in the basement. 'Nobody here but the FBI's most unwanted.' " Lorelai mimicked Mulder's deep voice.

"Right, well, I couldn't figure out how to get there-but I saw lots of guns and what they use to solve a crime."

"Duh, you know that from watching _CSI_."

"Have you done anything besides watch TV?" She accused her mother.

"I learned a new way to tie my shoes. It's much faster and this way I won't be late for work."

"Yes, you will be saved from hitting the snooze button five times by three extra seconds." Endearing sarcasm dripped from Rory's voice. "Oh, I bought you a key chain, it's all official looking, well, except for the part that says FBI Tour, but we could white that out."

"Atta girl! I'll put it next to Winnie."

"Winnie?" Rory questioned, her mind flipping through the hundreds of items her mother had named, unable to come up with a Winnie.

"Winnie the Hippo, remember?"

"Ah, yes. How could I forget little Winnie?"

"So, Paris."

"The person or the city?" Rory bantered, perfectly aware of what her mother was referring to.

"Well, I hear the city is quite lovely this time of year, but no, I was referring to Paris the Person." She joked back.

"Oh, well, she's good." Rory replied, winding the cord around her finger. 

"Getting along okay? Not driving you nuts."

"No, we're good, I think. We're not assigned to the same groups, which helps."

"So basically you never see her."

"Just at night." She admitted, feeling a little guilty. It wasn't as if she was avoiding her, it was just easier not hanging out with her. 

"Is she there now?"

"No, one of her group drafted something that she didn't approve of, so they're working on that."

"Sounds like Paris."

"Yeah, it's okay though."

"How's the place?"

"GW's great! The room's a little small but I really love the campus. They play this song; I think it's called "Hail to the Buff" every hour. But I've haven't seen anyone going around in the nude yet." She gushed, feeling a little bit of pride for knowing what was going on.

"GW?" Lorelai questioned, puzzled.

"George Washington University, way too long to say. Everyone calls it GW, the ones that have been here forever kinda slur it together so it's "j-dub."

"I was just worried that you were referring to our pres."

"Have we ever referred to him?"

"Not in nice terms, no. That's why I was worried."

"There was a presidential escort through here the other day. Lots of black cars and sirens."

"Wow! Did you sneak a peak?"

"No, his bodyguards were kind of scary-looking and completely unflirtable. But, hey I got to go onto a CNN show, _Crossfire_, last night."

"Yea! Did you make faces and yell obscenities?"

"Mom. It wasn't that kind of show. Lots of politics."

"Fine, so you're not me." She pouted. Rory just smiled; she knew her mother too well to fall for any of her guilt-trip tactics.

"Mom?" Rory asked, gathering her courage. She was dreading this part, afraid of hurting her mother. The cord was tight around her finer and she clenched it in her fist. Somehow it made her feel slightly better. 

"Yeah, babe?" Lorelai could read her daughter well. The joking and teasing were gone from her voice and Rory could hear the unspoken concern.

"What if I'm making a mistake?" She asked hesitantly.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, this. I like this school. I sat in on one of the English classes and met a professor. She was really nice. We've only ever talked about Harvard, and the other girls, they have visits to all these different schools lined up. What if Harvard's not my school, but I don't know that because I didn't explore my options." The words poured out, tripping over themselves in her rush to get it all out.

"So, you want to look at other schools." Rory wasn't sure what to make of her mom's quiet voice. Lorelai was never quiet.

"Yeah, not like community colleges, no, but maybe Princeton or Georgetown, 'cause I really like DC and maybe UConn. Or Yale." She filled in the last one with a rush.

"You would consider a state school? Connecticut?" Her mom sounded like herself again, incredulous and laughing at the same time. 

"Well, they have a cool mascot." Rory defended her choice.

"Since when have you cared about the mascot? Do you even know what Harvard's is?"

"Well, no. Maybe an elephant?" She replied thoughtfully.

"So Yale too." Her mother brought the conversation back to the topic, serious again and once again Rory didn't know how to read her tone. 

"Yeah. I mean, I know you don't like it because that's where grandpa went, but Mom, it's close to home and it's a good school and it's still Ivy League and-"

"Rory, breathe. It's okay. No, I agree, you should check out other schools. Even Yale, although don't tell my dad right away. He'll start getting ideas. Harvard's still on the list, right?"

"At the top, I mean, I still want to go there." 

"Okay, then we'll start collecting college information, plan some road trips." Lorelai brightened at the thought of road trips.

"You know what this means, right, Mom?"

"No, what?" She bantered back.

"Mail!" Lorelai gave an excited hoot at the increase of one of the many small joys in her life. 

"So how's home?" The cord relaxed around her finger and she tucked her feet under her, the adrenaline draining from her body. The sense of relief was so sweet.

"Oh, you know. Sookie got married, did you know?"

" I was there!" She protested dryly.

"Oh that's right. It's just been so long since I last saw you, you've probably been gone since last December. Nothing's happening here, and I want to hear about you! What are you doing next?"

The banter continued. Rory finally hung up the phone an hour later, a mixture of happiness and deep homesickness swirling in her mind. The need to cry was more pressing than before.

Presently, she gathered her composure and with trembling hands picked up the phone again. Her fingers dialed the familiar numbers alone-her fretful mind had not enough thought to direct to their action.

The phone rang twice, an agonizing pause between each ring. She recognized his hello instantly and blurted out before she could stop herself, "I'm sorry."

Silence, terrible, unforgiving silence, and she almost hung up the phone again. Then, hoarsely, emotion-thick, "Me too. I shouldn't have-"

"No, don't. I needed it. I treated you awful." She paused and then continued slowly. "You're right. I don't know who I am anymore. But, you gotta understand, I can't figure this out all at once. I think I need time. And I need you. As my friend." She couldn't stop the tears and she sat there, rocking back and forth slightly, the tears flowing into the receiver. She didn't know what she'd do if he didn't forgive her.

He cleared his throat. "Deal. Now, where'd we end up? I think we're on chapter 6, The Old Forest..."

With those words, the world became right again. Rory settled back down on her bed, listening to his voice. It was okay.

A/N: Whew, that was a long one! I tried putting them as two separate chapters but it worked so much better as one. I have visited GWU twice before, but I gravitated towards the hospital side of things; it was one of the schools that I had considered for med school. So, if I have gotten any facts wrong, or misrepresented the school, please let me know, because I'm extremely fond of the place. As always, please review and tell me how I'm doing: jcd1013@yahoo.com.


	4. God's gonna trouble the water

I am so so sorry that it's taken so long for me to write this chapter! Real life reared its ugly head and demanded that I take it seriously. But now I'm finished with school (I'm 1/4 of the way done to becoming a doctor? Isn't that a weird thought!), and I have a glorious summer ahead of me! 

And, yes, for those who were wondering, this is the fic that was formerly known as _Songbird_. It's been trying on several different names, since I decided that it outgrew its first one (they grow so fast at this age, don't they?) Right now, the choice is _Like Never Before_, after rejecting We Are Stardust; Life is For Learning; Time After Time, etc. Picky, picky story. :)Tell me what you think of the change. Aw, heck, tell me what you think of the story too. :) :) :) 

Thank you, thank you, thank you to my reviewers (and therefore muses): LitJunkie, kimlockt, Vfoxy713, LCI-02/03, Holly Gilmore, AvidTVfan, and KT. Also, a special big thank you goes to Kim, Jamie and Karin, who not only inspired me to continue, but gave me ideas when mine ran dry and suggested (very kindly) on how I could improve it. This chapter would not have happened without their input and I'm very grateful. 

Disclaimer: Not mine, although Brad is turning out to be more mine than the Brad that ASP created. My Brad did not go to Broadway and sing at High School Graduation, becoming the class buffoon. (Purge that image of poor Brad out of your head. Is it gone? Good, we can continue.) ASP and Co. can claim the name, the looks, the religion and the school uniform, but the rest are mine. Lyrics: "Wade in the Water," from _Eva By Heart_. 

Like Never Before

Chapter 6

_Who's that young girl dressed in red _

_Wade in the Water _

_Must be the Children that Moses led _

_God's gonna trouble the Water_

"So, Louise has a Dutch boyfriend, you know. She's in France right now with her father, but since everybody has a French boyfriend, she had to have something, you know, different. She tried a German guy, but he wasn't a good kisser and she couldn't understand him, and since she didn't want to shut him up by kissing him, things got boring and she went Dutch. Or maybe it was Danish? Anyway, her dad is furious and swears that he's going to ship her back here…" 

Paris listened to Madeline prattle on, interjecting comments now and then. It had been a pleasant surprise coming home and seeing a note from Rory with Madeline's number. She had called her back promptly and had been completely immersed in the gossip catch-up. Paris was in no way an emotional person—tears just wasted time and energy and all you ended up with was a headache and swollen eyes. But moisture pricked her eyes at the sound of her friend's cheerful chatter. Oh sure, she knew that the major reason that Madeline had called was because she had just broken up with the latest flavor of the month and with Louise gone she needed someone to funnel her gossip through; Paris didn't care. She just relished the feeling of hearing a friendly voice. 

"So, how's DC?" Madeline finally asked, having told Paris every bit of news and rumors that she had missed in her two-week absence.

"Hot. The dorms, as one would expect, lack air conditioning." She answered shortly, wondering what Madeline would say if she told her the truth. She was homesick, she decided. It was a new feeling, one that she had searched for days to figure out why she felt so crappy and depressed. She had never particularly enjoyed summer vacations, and every year dreaded the months where she would be locked up in the house, avoiding her bickering parents, with no place, no friends to escape to. And yet, she had never felt so completely alone than she did now. She longed for home. That at least was familiar.

It had been two weeks since she arrived in D.C., two of the longest weeks of Paris's life. Oh, the first week had gone okay, once they finished with the fluffy bonding workshops and got down to business. The lectures given by various legislature members and political activists had been somewhat interesting. It had gone downhill from then. Or more precisely, Rory had gone downhill. Rory had stopped speaking to her the previous week and Paris could not think of anything to break the silence. That had lasted the weekend and while now Rory was at least politely talkative, asking how her day went, Rory also was never around. She came in to drop her books and only returned to call some guy who definitely was not her boyfriend. Not that Rory actually ever confided in her, but some things were just too obvious. In any case, it didn't appear that she and Rory would be living out the life of a teen coming-of-age flick, where they became actual friends and chummy roommates. Paris tried to ignore the hurt, but each day had gotten a little harder.

She realized suddenly that Madeline must have asked her something, for there was an expectant pause on the other end. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I asked if you were coming home for the 4th. I'm throwing a beach party and I could set up you with someone."

Paris almost laughed. Yeah, she could see how that would be a great evening. "No. There's a celebration on the Mall that I have to attend."

"Oh wow! You can buy shoes while you party! That doesn't sound like your kind of thing, though." Paris didn't bother correcting her; it would have only confused the girl more.

"Oh no. I've got tennis practice in ten minutes. And George is so upset when I'm late. Listen, Paris, I've got to run. But, it was good talking to you and hey, have fun okay? Bye."

Paris placed the phone down in the cradle, conflicting emotions warring inside. It had been wonderful to hear from Madeline, comforting, in fact, to know that her friend at least thought about her and cared, on some level, enough to call. And yet, the conversation had starkly confirmed that nothing in her life had changed.

She exhaled deeply and leaned over to pick up her bag. They were discussing the historical roots of the checks and balances of political power the next day and she had some research to do on the subject. Besides, she had no intention of staying here and moping. At least, at the library, she could find some peace and get some work done too.

Three steps outside the dorms, she thought she heard someone call her name. She ignored it—nobody here even knew her name. 

"Paris!" She finally looked up. Brad Langeford was running across the grass towards her, waving his arm. Great. She knew her day wasn't complete without the Brad-encounter quotient. So far, she had maneuvered herself into completely different groups for every small group assignment, but he still managed to come up to her every day and stutter the standard "Hi, how are you?" salutation, wearing a strained, plastered smile. His need to cause himself anguish was beyond her understanding.

She sighed, shifting her weight to her other hip as she waited for him to catch up.

"Yes?" She replied coolly, congratulating herself on keeping the apathy out of her voice.

"H-hi. How—how are you?" He panted. Amazing. The kid managed to sound nervous and like he was dying from an asthma attack at the same time. 

"Me? Why, I'm just fine, thank you. And yourself?" She drawled back. Okay, so she wasn't so good at hiding sarcasm—the Southern drawl was probably too thick. But at the moment, she couldn't care if he took offense and left in a huff. 

"Go-good." He didn't even seem to notice the implication of her statement. He stared down at his feet. Gray sneakers, once white, now just scuffed and faded. They looked strange under the folds of his black suit pants. The Chilton School Uniform at least meant that he was professionally dressed. So why the sneakers?

Impatiently, she dragged her eyes away from his feet. "You wanted to ask me something?" Honestly, what was she doing, standing there, wasting her time while he gathered wool where he ought to have brains?

"I-I was wo-wondering." He met her eyes, briefly, then in a rush "We have the afternoon free, you know. I'm going to the Holocaust Museum, I go every time I come to D.C. you know, and, I mean, I-well, would you like to come?"

Paris stared at him, incredulously. She couldn't have possibly heard him right. Spending the afternoon with Brad, of all people? 

"No."

"Oh. Th-that's okay, th-then. M-maybe some ot-other time." His stuttering grew worse and he barely handled getting the sentence out. "S-see you a-around."

Still not looking at her, he backed away and turned to leave.

Perhaps it was her recent conversation with Madeline. Or maybe it was the thought that the only thing that she had to look forward to was a long afternoon sitting in the library, and then heading back to the dorms to endure Rory's pointed avoidance. In any case, something indefinable took hold of her and a voice rose out of her, almost beyond her control.

"Wait." Paris called and he stopped and walked back. It was her turn to stare at his shoes. "I have a paper to look up at the library, but I can meet you in an hour." Before she knew it, they had agreed to meet back at the dorms in a couple of hours. Numbly, she watched him walk away, still looking rather scared and shocked that she had taken him up on the offer. She was beyond shocked. She shook her head and shifted her bag to the other shoulder. Her steps were brisk to the library. Maybe she'd figure out some way to get it out of it. 

Two hours later, the two of them were walking down to the Foggy Bottom Metro stop. He had informed her nervously of the plans to take the Blue line to the Smithsonian station where they could then walk to the museum. Paris didn't say anything in disagreement and Brad halted his attempts at conversation. She was still trying to figure out why exactly she was there, what had caused her to agree to come along with Brad. She must be possessed. She had a feeling that she had made a big mistake. Three times she almost stopped and ended it all, but something kept her feet going forward.

Soon, however, the lack of conversation began to irritate her. Why had he invited her along if he wasn't going to say anything? She had endured enough of the silent treatment from Rory; she couldn't take anymore. Halfway down the escalator, she had had enough. 

"You're scared of me." She stated bluntly, glancing over to see his reaction. He blanched. She sighed. She hadn't thought it possible for him to get paler. Why couldn't he blush like everyone else? "Well? It's true isn't it?"

He still didn't respond, just shuffled his feet a little and looked back down at the Metro map, as if the routes had changed. It irritated her. No, it more than irritated her. She hated it when people wouldn't make eye contact or stand up for themselves.

"Just admit it and get it over with! You tremble in your socks every time you see me approach!" She barked, glaring at him.

He looked up and met her eyes for the first time, before quickly glancing away. "Ye-yeah, I guess I am." He smiled sheepishly. Why did he find that amusing?

"So, why'd you take it into your head to be Miss Manners and invite me along on your afternoon jaunt?" She countered.

He looked uncomfortable. Surprise, surprise. "I-I don't know." 

"You must have a reason." She pressed, refusing to back down. "Look, if you felt sorry for me, don't bother. I know I have Pathetic Loser tattooed on my forehead and soon there will be flyers all over campus stating "For a boring time, call Paris Gellar," but you know what, I'm okay with that." 

"That's not it!" He grabbed at her sleeve. "I…I don't really know anybody, besides you and Rory and Tad. And Tad's seeing that girl from Oregon and Rory's always busy, so I just saw you and thought, well, maybe that you were, um, as lonely as me." He released her sleeve and turned to the machine to pay for his Metro ticket.

"Oh."

"You don't have to come, you know, if you don't want to. I know, I know you don't like me." He confessed and boldly met her eyes. She was the one who flinched away.

Ouch. She hadn't expected him to confront her like that. And somehow, she couldn't confirm it, not after he had been so…nice to her. "No… I'd like to come. Thanks." and when he smiled at her, she almost smiled back.

"Good. 'Cause I called ahead to reserve us tickets and I don't think I'd be able to scalp the other one." Flustered and unbalanced, she took the proffered ticket. If anything, this was proving to be an afternoon unlike any other.

*************************************************************************************

"So, what do you think?" Brad questioned, taking a bite of his fish dish, a combination of Tuna and salsa. 

It was evening, the sun having set only moments after they walked out of the museum, although the heat was still intense and muggy. Paris was stunned and double-checked her watch to confirm that so much time had passed. They had spent the entire afternoon in the Holocaust Museum, walking through the displays on the floor in semi-solitude.

She felt strangely subdued. Drained and rather exhausted, she had nodded gratefully to Brad's hesitant suggestion that they find some place to eat. So following his lead, they had walked up 14th street, each deep in thought. She blinked at the iguanas on the door handles of _Red Sage_ and then balked at the fine interior of the restaurant. Contrasting the southwestern motif were tables with linen on them! Brad wasn't getting ideas that this was a date, was he? Suddenly worried about the implication of their afternoon together, she chided herself for not even considering that possibility. Her fears eased as he confidently led the pair up some stairs to the next floor where the atmosphere was more relaxed, although still with the vibrant southwestern décor. The walls were painted an orange-brown, blending with the horses-and-cowboy carpet and cowhide-covered stools. On each table, a candle flickered in a jar. 

The place was humming with activity, a younger crowd than that downstairs: twenty-something professionals in groups of three or four, a rare tourist-looking family, a group of teenagers in jeans. Her worries dissipated entirely and after looking at the menu, eagerly ordered a dish that Brad had suggested.

Now, at his questioning look, she took a bit of her chicken. The sweetness of the honey and pecan glaze mixed with the searing spiciness of red chili was overwhelming on the first bit—she gulped down most of her water in a vain attempt to cool her mouth down—, but before long, she had devoured most of her plate. 

"How'd you hear about this place?" she questioned. It did not look like the kind of place Brad would know anything about. Of course, he hadn't been anything like her expectations all afternoon, so it really shouldn't have surprised her.

"Used to come here all the time, with my dad's interns." He clarified, "My dad's a politician. Or was. Senator for Maine. We spent half the year here in DC for twelve years, 'cause my mom didn't like being so far from Dad."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. It was hard, living in two places. I was home-schooled in elementary, Mom taught us during the year, Dad whenever the Congress was on break. I learned more about electoral colleges and judicial review than any eleven year old should. What they're teaching us here is so basic, it would make Dad cringe." 

"So, you like politics?"

"No, not really. I could possibly see myself as a lobbyist, but I'm, I'm more interested in doing some acting or maybe te-teaching." He flushed around his stutters and took a sudden interest in his food again. Normally, Paris might have said something critical of his choice in careers, how he'd never make it if he didn't learn how to not stammer, but she just nodded.

He seemed anxious to change the subject. "So that was the first time you've been to the museum?"

"Yes." She said shortly. It had been a much more emotional experience than she had anticipated and she didn't want to relive it.

He seemed to understand how she felt. "We used to go every single year. I hated it when I was a kid. It was so long and depressing, just another museum really. But then, as I got older and learned about my family… My grandfather was a rabbi in Denmark before the war. He had to quit teaching and there was a time when he thought that he'd be deported or his family killed, but he was lucky." He mused, his face thoughtful.

"I hated Anne Frank." Paris opened up in a rush. "I had to read it in the sixth grade and Mr. Jacobson love it and just praised it up and down. I was so sick of reading about Anne and her little crushes. If she had been smarter, she'd never have been caught and then they wouldn't be making us read her la dee da diary. I told Mother that I was glad she wasn't Jewish anymore. She slapped me and told me that she would always be Jewish and sent me to live with my Bubba for the summer. So I had my bat mitzvah that summer and Mother has "celebrated" Chanukah ever since then, I think to spite my father and I."

"I had my bar mitzvah in Israel." He smiled at the memory. "Mom was freaked out because of all the suicide bombings, but it was an amazing experience. Of course, my younger sister was jealous because she didn't get to have hers there, but Mom swore she'd never go back."

Paris felt a twinge of jealousy at the easy way he talked about his family. She couldn't recall ever calling her mother Mom. There were no "mom" qualities about the woman who birthed her. 

He continued, not noticing her envious look. "It made the Holocaust more real, being in Israel and seeing all of these people who are my people, you know."

"It hasn't been real to me. Another event in world history, marked down to men's stupidity, facts drilled in, so that I could relay information back on a test. Until today. They gave us that passport, you know, with the name of somebody who had been in a concentration camp. Eva Beem. That was mine. 11 years old, died at Auschwitz. At first, I thought it was ridiculous, especially since you could only turn the page at certain times. What would this teach us? And then I saw the pictures. And the shoes. And realized that one of those pairs could be hers." Her voice was stoic, hard, hiding the tears that should not have been there in the first place. She was not going to cry. Paris Gellar did not cry.

" We are the shoes, we are the last witnesses. / We are shoes from grandchildren and grandfathers, / From Prague, Paris and Amsterdam, / And because we are only made of fabric and leather / And not of blood and flesh, each one of us avoided the hellfire." Brad quoted softly. "Moishe Shulstein. I memorized it a couple of years ago. Someday I'm going to learn it in Hebrew."

He glanced at her, reading something in her face. "Of course, I'd have to learn more Hebrew than just the swear words my cousin taught me. Hey have you heard this one: a rabbi, a priest and a duck walk into a bar. The bartender looks up and says, 'What's this, a joke?'

She snorted in mock disgust, but a smile played at the corner of her lips. He grinned wider.

"Or how about the time a mushroom walked into a bar. The bartender said 'Get out, we don't serve your kind here.' 'Oh, come on,' said the mushroom, 'I'm a fungi!'"

She laughed loudly, the unexpected sound breaking through unused vocal chords. It had been so long since she laughed, she had almost forgotten how. But she seemed to be doing right.

"A man walks into a bar…"

It was late when they arrived back at Lafayette Hall, almost in hysterical laughter. Over coffee, Brad had challenged her to invent the best punned bar jokes and she, with an air of mischievous abandonment, took him up on the offer, the years of intense study of the English language paying off. He had admitted defeat after her brilliant "gaffing ladder" joke, although he claimed his duck joke earned a special award for the worst of the bunch. She promptly agreed.

The dorms were quiet and she instantly sobered, reality striking home and worries resurfacing. She just spent all day with this guy. Did he think it was a date? Did it make it a date? And if it was a date, was she expected to kiss him? She had only starting thinking nice things about him just a couple hours before. Kissing him was out of the question; she shuddered at the thought. A handshake? And risk getting one of those dead fish hands? Who invented handshakes in the first place? Why couldn't people just say goodbye and walk away? She yearned briefly for advice from Rory—Rory would know exactly what to do in this situation, but she squelched the thought.

Lamely, she settled on the generic, but gold "I had a good time." Ugh, she sounded like an afternoon special. Now for the sappy "me too" reply and they could make it on the Hallmark Hall of Fame.

"I'm glad. Listen, Paris." He was sounding nervous again. Her stomach dropped in dread. "L-look, I know, that is, I think we started on the wr-wrong foot, but…I was, you know, hoping that maybe, we could start over, and…I'd like to be your friend."

She blinked. He wanted to be her friend? Nobody wanted to be her friend. And after admitting that he _knew_ that she detested him, he still wanted to be her friend.

A part of her begged to just run away—give a non-committal response, open the door and find her world where she was very content and happy. Or at least, satisfied and... Sure, he might say that now, but soon he'd wake up and realize that hanging out with Paris Gellar was one step away from a lifetime prison conviction. It happened with Rory… Yes, just walking away was the way to go.

But she didn't. Somehow, during that day, Brad had changed positions from aggravation-inducer to…something else. He wasn't what she thought, what she had expected and maybe, just maybe, he really did mean this.

Hesitantly, she responded, "Okay, I guess, if you want."

"Okay, then, well, see you tomorrow. Shalom!" and with that, he disappeared down his corridor.

Weird. She now had a friend. Or at least, a pseudo-maybe-one-day-if-she-didn't-scare-him friend. She wondered idly what Madeline would think. 

She opened the door to her room. Rory sat on the bed animatedly talking on the phone as usual, not bothering to even look up. For once, it didn't quite bother Paris.

She dreamed that night of shoes.

Final A/N: Red Sage and Border Café are real places—thanks to Kim for suggesting it, it was perfect. For those who are truly curious, Brad had the Tuna al Carbon and Paris ate their specialty Pan Seared Pecan Crusted Chicken Breast. If any one is interested in experiencing it, visit their web page at redsage.com. References to why I have made both Brad and Paris Jewish came from the episodes "Back in the Saddle Again " and "That'll Do, Pig " (there may be others). I am not Jewish, so I hope that I haven't offended anyone with my depictions and feelings of what I experienced at the Holocaust Museum. While Brad's grandfather is an imaginary person, the name on Paris's passport is real. While I thought about inventing a name to go on the passport, I eventually decided that that would fictionalize the events and be exactly opposite of what I was trying to do. Information about Eva Beem and her family can be found at museumoftolerance.com/mot/children/beva.cfm This story is dedicated to her and to the other children of the Holocaust. 


	5. You and me at the dark end of the street

Disclaimer: Jess has moved in with me, after ASP and Co. neglected and abused him; I gave him safe shelter and I'm not letting him go, but the rest don't belong to me. Lyrics: "Dark End of the Street", _The Other Side (With Chuck Brown)_.

Dedicated as always to my reviewers: ren, fireman fred, AvidTVfan, LitJunkie and kimlockt, you have no idea how your words have encouraged me and directed where I was taking this fic. 

Like Never Before

Chapter 7:

_At the dark end of the street_

_That's where we always meet_

_Hiding in shadows where we don't belong_

_Living in darkness, to hide alone_

_You and me at the dark end of the street_

The phone was ringing as Rory walked into the room after spending four unproductive hours at the library. Delivering a glare to Paris who sat undisturbed on her bed, Rory dumped her books in the middle of floor as she made a mad dash to catch it before the other person hung up.

"Hello?" Silence greeted her. She cursed under her breath—she was sweaty and hot and it had all been for a prank call—and asked again, "Hello?" Her tone had a lot more bite to it this time.

This time, a deep voice answered her. "Talk or read?"

"Excuse me? I'm sorry, but I don't accept solicitations—" Never fond of telemarketers, she was rather angry by this point.

"Rory, it's Jess." His voice was mildly exasperated mixed with amusement. She could sense that infernal smirk on his face.

"Jess?" She questioned with more confusion, twisting the phone cord tight around her fingers. "What are you—how did you get my number?"

"Telepathy?"

"Jess, be serious." She couldn't say why exactly this upset her so. Despite the rapid beating of her heart and the exhilaration that was coursing through her veins, she felt out of control of the situation, exposed, vulnerable. His calling changed everything, things that she even hadn't known she was dependent on. It messed with her schedule: call Lorelai in the morning or early evening, Lane on Wednesday afternoons, and Jess at night, late night, so her mom wouldn't get a busy signal and wonder. She stalked across the room, her thoughts flustered, trying to ignore the dawn of a knowing sneer on Paris's face. She composed her face, calmed her breathing, releasing the cord from her finger—a nervous habit of hers, she was discovering. "I've always called and I know I never gave you this number." 

"Not by magic either, eh?" He sighed loudly, even though she hadn't responded. "Your mom was in here the other day and she forgot her cell phone. So I swiped the number before I gave it back."

"You stole my number, Dodger?" She harassed lightly, her rational side kicking in, the momentary misgivings pushed aside. She was acting ridiculous. She forced herself to relax, concentrating on calming her pounding heart, trying not to think on why she had reacted so powerfully. He had just surprised her, that was all. She would have felt the same way had it been Lane or…Miss Patty or anyone else from back home who called unexpectedly.

"Yeah."

"Wait, my mom went to Luke's? That's great! I'm so glad they're talking again!" She changed topics quickly.

"Hold your horses, Sharpshooter. Pure desperation drove her to our little cafe. First time all summer."

"Oh," She frowned in disappointment. "She hadn't mentioned making up, but I had hoped..."

"Nope."

"Rats. Does Luke know that we....talk?" She asked hesitantly, embarrassed that after four weeks of daily conversation she was only now aware of what Luke might overhear. A faint rustle across the room distracted her; she glanced up and met Paris's eyes. The girl still had a smug gloat on her face as she strutted out of the room. The last time she could recall Paris looking so gleeful was when she found out about Mr. Medina and Lorelai. Rory groaned, wondering what new methods of torment Paris would come up with this time. And she was worried about Luke finding out!

Rory could hear Jess roll his eyes. "New bedroom finished, right? I sit in my room, he sits in his and watches baseball, thinking that I'm planning a robbery. And right now, he's cleaning up the diner."

"And why aren't you helping him?" She demanded.

"Morning shift, up at five stuffing napkin holders. Now, would you answer my question?"

"What question?"

"Did you want to talk first or read? Although I guess I should assume since you never shut up, it's probably the first." His tone was teasing.

"Ha ha." She felt restless, the adrenaline still in high concentration in her body. Normally, she was drawn into the story that Jess's voice painted for her, but tonight she knew she'd be unable to concentrate. "How about talk first, read, then talk some more?"

"You're a greedy one." 

"Compromise is for weenies. I want it all."

He chuckled at her cheeky response. "Okay. Talk." 

"Um, it was my first day at work today?"

"Work?" He questioned, "Oh, right, you became an intern today. How are you, Ms. Lewinsky?"

"Ha, that's a good one. Senator Riley wasn't even there today. All I did was fetch coffee and listen to the interns talk about how this was going to boost their resume and then at the end of the day, I got assigned homework. So, now, knowing absolutely nothing except that 'leadership training' sounds better than 'intern' on a resume, I'm to turn in my ideas on a solution to some social issue, as well as the weaknesses of Riley's new bill that he's submitting to committee."

"I thought you'd be overjoyed at the thought of rubbing shoulders with Washington's big guys." He remarked dryly. 

"No, not me. I don't like politics that much. I've told you, the only reason that I ran with Paris was because she needed me as a running mate and Harvard wants leadership experience."

"Paris has that much power of you, huh? What does she do, hypnotize you in your sleep?"

"Oh no, you're not going to start on a lecture about being the 'master of my own destiny,' are you? Because then I'll have to drag out all of my astrology books to prove to you that it's all written in the stars. And don't tell me that it's good for me either!" She groaned, not wanting to get into a discussion about how she enabled Paris to exploit her. Their last conversation, he had called her a "moving sidewalk," because, as he put it, she was so nice that not only did she let people walk over her, she assisted them. 

"What political party does your mom belong to?"

That wasn't the response she was expecting. What happened to the sympathy? The cheer-up talk? "Um, Democrat, I think."

"You don't talk about it?"

"No. I think she said something after the whole election mess last year, and she makes jokes about Bush, but that's it. Oh and I think my grandpa's Republican, but we don't talk about it much."

"So, there's never been a cause that has gotten you fired up? You didn't write your Congressman in the fourth grade telling him that the lily should be the state flower of Connecticut."

"No." She laughed. "I'd have asked for buttercups, anyway. That was my favorite flower then."

"No cause that's become your zeal?" He pressed.

I guess I'm more of an impartial, neutral kind of person. Call me Switzerland. And hey, that's what makes a good journalist, right, being able to objectively present both sides." She contended.

"No, a good journalist knows that politics and religion are what make the world go round. Every war, every problem, every solution, somehow one or both are involved. They use their activism to explore topics that interest them and then they report on them. Take your beloved Christiane Amanpour. You think she's in Afghanistan and Kuwait right now because she likes the sand? She's there because she lived in Iran, saw how abysmal things were there. Now, foreign policy's her life, not some assignment."

She desperately tried to ignore the sudden surge of happiness that Jess knew _about_ Christiane Amanpour. Giving up completely on understanding her erratic emotions, much less controlling them, she focused on what he was saying. "So, you think I should get a cause?"

He laughed, a sound that came more and more frequently. Half the time, she forgot that he was the sullen, monosyllabic boy that she had first known. "Yeah, see if you can find one on sale at Wal-Mart. I just thought that you, of all people, would take more of an interest in some of the legislation going on. Take the issue of abortion—"

She groaned. "No thanks."

"What?"

"Come on, Jess, that's everybody's 'issue.' I've passed more pro-life and pro-choice rallies in the past week than there are residents of Stars Hollow. It's so overdone and not worth all the attention that everybody gives it."

His voice was light. "And you said you didn't care about anything." He grew more serious as he continued. "I actually thought that you might have more of an opinion on this one, though."

"Why?" She questioned.

"Besides your unnatural obsession with movies and emotional attachment to such works as _Cider House Rules_ and _High Fidelity_?" He continued over her protests. "Your mom was sixteen when she got pregnant, right? She didn't marry the guy and from what you've told me, your grandparents don't seem like the type who would welcome the news. Did you ever ask her if she considered an abortion?" He probed.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because…I don't need to. My mom wouldn't do that."

"Yeah, but according to the Supreme Court, it was _her_ right. Think about it. Her life could have been completely different if she had chosen to terminate her pregnancy and your life would never have been. You were a bunch of cells that she could get rid of and continue on with her life.

"Yeah." She was quiet. She had never really thought about how her mother's life would have been if she hadn't been born. Her mother would have finished school, and maybe married her dad, who wouldn't have been her dad, because she never would have been his daughter—The thought of not existing was rather distressing and she felt her chest constricting.

"Think of it another way, rather in terms of life and death. In any other place except this godforsaken town, as long as I don't break any laws, what I do in my home and bedroom is my business and no one else's. A man, you don't know who he's doing, until you enter a locker room. But pregnancy is this blatant billboard that declares in no uncertain terms what's been going on. Some women don't feel like wearing that sign. That's more of what Roe vs. Wade was about legally, this right to privacy."

She didn't say anything, still attempting to picture her mother's life without her. He must have sensed her discomfort. "Listen, Ror. I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable or anything. I just wanted you to see… My mom almost had an abortion with me. But my dad convinced her that he'd marry her, so she went along with it. Of course, he took off the day after I was born. Taylor's wishing she'd gone through with it."

"I don't think Taylor is pro-choice, though." She mused, unsure of whether she should be comforting him or even how do that.

"Oh, he's pro-choice. His choice. He chooses for everybody." He replied dryly. There was certainly no love lost between the two of them. 

She felt better, reassured by this unexpected connection between them. She had never labeled herself as "unwanted," even with the jabs that her paternal grandparents had thrown her, but she knew that it had taken a long time for small town Stars Hollow to accept her mom and the scarlet letter that Rory caused her to wear. And it felt nice to know that Jess more than understood. "Hey, what happened to your cynicism, Mr. The-World-Don't-Treat-Me-Right?" 

"Didn't offer it enough money. Took the job next door." He riposted in a deadpan. 

"Huh." She mimicked his usual response. "Hate it when that happens."

"It's not like I believe any of this anyway."

"_What??_" She was completely thrown by this change in direction. If he didn't believe it…

"I plan on being a bum. Encompassing apathy is part of the job description. You on the other hand, Miss Foreign Correspondent… Ever read _All the President's Men_?"

"No, I watched the movie once for history." She was getting used to his Socrates method of answering questions, so she waited patiently for him to explain his reasoning.

"Read it, better than the movie. Take that one incident, Watergate. A break-in in a hotel, right down the street from where you live now. That was it: a normal, rather mundane crime. And suddenly, these two reporters start investigating and you have this whole conspiracy, a resigned President and a now apathetic country of voters."

"Okay??"

"Politics is a lot like that—it looks simple on the outside and before you know it, there's a whole web that you're caught in."

"Then why—"

"I'm getting to it. You got the chance now to get an understanding of how one government works: the basics, the ABCs, the nitty-gritty, the inane. So when you do become like that cute Michelle Pfeiffer reporter on that movie, you'll know what's going on underneath. Or maybe by the end, you'll decide that a career as a manicurist is more your thing." His voice took on a cowboy drawl by the end; he was obviously baiting her with his chauvinistic attitude. 

She refused to be goaded. "Okay, I'll give it a try." She grudgingly agreed.

"That's my girl. Whatcha reading?" He switched subjects smoothly, leaving her to wonder if she had only imagined the slight emphasis on the phrase.

"Same as you, since you're reading it to me." She replied, perplexed. "Did you want to get back to it?"

"Uh-huh. I'm supposed to believe that you, a literary harlot—"

"Hey!" exclaimed Rory, "that's a little strong!"

"Fine, a literary devourer, has refrained from reading anything else because I'm reading to you? You inflate my ego."

"Okay, fine. Yes, I read other books. Happy now?" She grumbled.

"Such as?"

"Well, earlier this summer, I read all of Dante's books, along with a really great translation of Goethe's _Faust_—"

"Not sure where your soul's going, eh?" He interjected.

"They're on the reading assignment for next year."

"Ah."

"And right now, I'm trying something a littler bit...lighter."

"Hmm. You sound guilty."

"I do not!" She protested feebly. How was it that he could sense any wavering on her part, clamping down with steel jaws, until she gave in? 

"And you still won't admit what it is, this guilty pleasure. Spill, Gilmore." He commanded in a falsely stern voice.

"You'll laugh." She weakened, giving in to the inevitable.

He sighed. "What, do I have to pinky swear that I won't? Jeez, just tell me."

"Okay! One of the girls down the hall, Kate, she brought the whole series with her and so I've been reading...Harry Potter." She finished in a near whisper.

"Harry Potter." Jess repeated slowly.

"Yeah."

"That's it? Thought it was some of those soft porn novels that masquerade as romances."

She grinned sheepishly. "I guess I was afraid that you'd think it childish."

"Nope. Bought any toys yet? I hear you can get matching sheets and towels."

"You promised you wouldn't tease me!" She was laughing despite herself.

"You believed me?"

"I certainly know better now!"

"Despite being the latest stampede-in-the-mall craze, you like it?"

"You know, I really do. Oh, it probably doesn't deserve _all_ the popularity and hype that it's received, but it's pretty good. I just finished the third book last night and I'm amazed at Rowling's creativity and imagination. But don't worry, I still like _Lord of the Rings_ best." She teased back.

"Favorite character?"

"Um, the twins, Fred and George Weasley. They're pretty minor, but they make me laugh. 'But we're not stupid -- we know we're called Gred and Forge. '" She quoted with another laugh. "I think I'll keep this away from Mom—they would give her new ideas."

"How long did it take you to realize that Sirius was one of the good guys?"

"Not until the end, I was—" She stopped, amazed. "You've read them yourself."

"Me?" His voice was angelically innocent.

"Don't deny it! I'm on to you! You just pretend that you're above all of the merchandising and _New York Times Bestsellers_ lists, but I know you." 

"Feel better?" he interrupted her rant with mock sincerity. 

"Yes." She replied primly. "At least, I am a liberated woman. Self-actualized, actually."

"Don't start waving wards. And no English accents. Uh no. Now, I've given you ideas." He moaned with a theatrical flourish.

"How really corking to see you, gov'nor!" She laughed at his groan and couldn't help continuing, "So, mate, who you been snoggin' this holiday?" 

There was silence on the other end. Too late, she realized what she had said. "Um, that means kissing…" Nope, that didn't improve things either. Why couldn't she just keep her big mouth shut?

"Just the girl down the street." He responded, his voice low and…sexy. Did she just think that? A hot blush spread over her cheeks. Since their talk almost three weeks ago, when she had asked him for more time, their conversation had been completely friendly. The _Pillow Talk_-type innuendo no longer garnished his banter, which for some reason she missed sometimes. And then, she had to do something like this.

"Oh." She whispered. The pause lingered and the tension was making her heady. She felt as if she couldn't breathe, didn't want to breathe because that would break this indefinable flash. For a moment, she swore that magic was real—she could feel the spell he cast, draping over her, enclosing her. 

She opened her mouth. The door opened. Paris marched in, grabbed a notebook, and left, slamming the door in her wake. Rory shook her head.

"Um, so you, you're reading what?" She said desperately, trying to bring the conversation back to safe ground. Books, always a good choice.

"Oh, a little known book called _Lord of the Rings_." Jess's voice was light again, although it seemed to ring with regret. "Have you tried it?"

"No. Although this strange guy seems to think I'd like it and for some reason he's been reading it to me." She joked back, relieved that he was willing to let it go.

"And?"

"I don't know. I think it's about a ring. I try not to fall asleep."

"Maybe it's the guy." 

"Maybe."

"It might be better if I read it to you." He said slowly, as if contemplating the matter deeply.

"Hmm, maybe so. Shall we make it an experiment?" She giggled back.

"Might as well. Got nothing better to do. Previously, on _Lord of the Rings_, our brave heroes had split up yet again. Aragorn had decided to fulfill his destiny and had traversed the Paths of the Dead while Merry had refused to be left behind and so now is riding into war behind a young man named Dernhelm, who seems very familiar to the readers."

"You're doing that deliberate foreshadowing thing again."

"Am I?" He replied nonplussed, "Our story continues with Chapter 4: The Siege of Gondor. 'Pippin was roused by Gandalf. Candles were lit in their chamber...'"

* * *

Two days later, Rory arrived early at Mr. Riley's office. She had to admit, it felt pretty cool walking up to the senate end of the Capitol Building and showing her pass at the employee entrance. She wondered briefly if she could bribe the guard into taking her picture in front of the metal detector—Lorelai would absolutely love it. 

She quickly settled down to a large pile of papers that needed to be sorted. Jess had, as usual, been right. While she couldn't say that she relished her job any more than she did, she was amazed at how much she was learning and how comfortable and interesting the daily routine was becoming. 

"Gilmore, was this yours?" One the interns, Jamie, asked, waving some papers in front of her that looked vaguely familiar.

"Um, yeah. That was my proposal outline."

"You ought to put your name on it, if you expect credit. I had to track you down by elimination. Don't let it happen next time."

"Wait, I thought Senator Riley was reading them…" She questioned, slightly flustered. She had been working with Jamie and the two other interns in the office for three days now and still hadn't had more than a glimpse of the Senator.

Jamie laughed. "Ol' Bob's too busy wining and dining for support for his latest bill. No, Dave and I grade your papers."

She flipped through her paper. No grade. No comments. No pen marks anywhere. She looked up at him in confusion.

He leaned back on the desk, arms casually folded, a bored expression masking his face. "So, welfare reform. Haven't seen that one before."

She blushed at his sarcasm. "It's overdone. I knew I should have gone for the stuff on the privacy act. I can give you a new one by tomorrow—"

"Hey hold on." He placed the paper out of her reach. "No need to shred it yet. You had some interesting ideas: welfare as extended loans, extended tuition tax credits, government supported job network."

"I just wrote what made sense to me—sir." She amended. Jamie was only a few years older than she, but if he was grading her, it wouldn't hurt to maintain that respect. "Welfare's been one of those issues that everybody loves to argue about how best to fix it but nobody really knows how. I think the main problem is that it's basically a free program, benefits with very little responsibility—"

"Ah, but you've idealized the problem, turned it into an 'After School Special.' There are people like your family who need very little assistance and then there are those whose livelihood is getting welfare checks, and that's all they want. So what's your solution?"

"I don't know." She faltered. She never did well put on the spot.

He looked at her intently for a long moment, a frown still creasing his features. Then he broke into a friendly smile. "Good work, Gilmore."

"Really?"

"Yes. Of course, you forgot to factor in some arguments and it's too impassioned to ever pass Congress--you've watched too many _Mr. Smith Goes to Washington_ inspired shows, and I'd keep all personal references out. You telling me about how your mom was a single parent at age sixteen and avoid welfare was too much pathos for a proposal—but you've shown some ingenuity, researched the facts thoroughly and came up with a unique solution. In fact, I'd say you have a knack for this."

She smiled inwardly, thinking of her rants to Jess. "I did kinda enjoy it." But that didn't change the lack of grade…

He noticed her puzzled glance back down on her paper. "Don't worry Gilmore, it's a pass/fail system and you earned your 'P'." He handed her another stack of papers. She repressed a sigh at the growing mound of work. "So, you're from where? Stars Hollow?"

"A small town in Connecticut, near Hartford."

"Hmm. Doesn't show as much as I thought it would. So, you're one of the kids from Chilton, right?"

She bristled at being called a kid, but nodded.

"I heard your speech last week. Riley wanted to make sure that the kid we got in the office knew something about how the big machine works. There was another girl from your school, unusual name, like Spain or something."

"Paris." She supplied.

"That was her. She did an unbelievable job talking about the Separation of Powers Doctrine and how it weakens the effectiveness of cooperation between the different branches." He gushed, showing more passion about that subject than he did her paper.

"Paris knows a lot and can deliver a good speech." She refrained from adding that she would also harp on you until you agreed to her view of things.

"So, you know her then?"

"We're roommates here, so, yes, I do." She answered distractedly, as she squinted at the small print on the pile, trying to figure out how much time she'd have to spend in the library, researching the facts and information for accuracy.

"Wasn't she also at the Introduction to Lobby Day luncheon on Monday?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, she was there, with the rest of us from Connecticut. I believe she was chasing Senator Liebermann down the hallway asking why she wasn't assigned as one of his interns."

"I thought that was her. You don't forget people like that. Does she have a boyfriend?"

"No, not that I'm—what?" She startled, sure that she had misheard him.

He grinned. "Your roommate. Paris. She's a nice girl, yes?"

"Yes." Nice wouldn't be the word that Rory would use to describe her, but the meaning could stretch to cover Paris. And she did have her moments…

"Do I have to spell it out for you?" His grin widened slightly. "You," he pointed at her, "have a roommate. I," he pointed at his chest, "am interested in meeting before mentioned roommate, as in a date."

"You want me to set you up?"

"Well, yeah."

"But, but you don't even know her! She doesn't know you. I mean, yeah, you kinda met at the luncheon, but I doubt she'd remember you." She stammered, certain the next moment he would declare that he had gotten the months mixed up and thought it was April 1st. 

He strummed his fingers against the desk impatiently. "Look, I don't go for the Barbie types—I'd rather have them with brains and spunk. Paris intrigues me. So I'd liked to get to know her."

She stared at him, mouth agape. Jamie had struck Rory as rather smug and infuriating when she first met him, and while her opinion of him had improved over their short acquaintance, well, the thought of dating him, of being interested in him, had never crossed her mind. But Paris? She studied Jamie intently, trying to see him as Paris would. She had no idea what kind of guy Paris found attractive—the only basis of understanding was her crush on Tristan and at the time, Paris was too busy hating her to tell her exactly why she liked him. Jamie did remind Paris of Tristan—not in looks, but the attitude was similar. And Jamie definitely had brains and ambition, traits that Paris demanded in everyone she associated with. He was a nice guy too, for the most part, and Paris would probably appreciate his sarcasm.

And Paris was probably pretty lonely, she mentally justified. Rory herself was a little lonesome, but she had made a few friends with some of the other girls and she had her mom and Jess to talk to. With a surge of guilt, Rory thought of the many times that she had passed Paris sitting alone in the campus library or the hours on her bed studying, where Rory hadn't said a word to her. She had seen Paris with Brad a couple of times, but hadn't processed that it meant that Paris was pretty desperate for company if she would put up with him. Perhaps Paris wouldn't mind meeting someone new, a new friend.

"Gilmore? You still there?" Jamie waved a hand in front of her face.

She snapped out of her reverie. "Jamie, I can't just set you up, she'd never forgive me. But I could give you our phone number and tell you where she studies in the GW library. Anything else is up to you."

He beamed in appreciated, words of thanks gushing from his mouth. He really was a nice guy. As she wrote the number down, she tried hard to silent the little niggle of warning that was worming to the front of her thoughts. 

* * *

The phone was once again ringing when Rory opened the door. Sighing, she managed to avoid throwing a death threat towards Paris, who this time, was sprawled on her bed doing absolutely nothing that Rory could see. At Rory's insistence, Jamie had indicated that he was going to try to talk to Paris in the library before he called; that left only one possible person on the other end. And she had so much to tell him. 

"I found a cause!" She announced loudly as she raised the receiver, plopping down on her bed.

"And the police told me that I was forever lost! I'm so relieved that I am no longer a _lost cause_."

"Mom, what have I told you about puns?" Rory demanded, feeling disappointed that it wasn't Jess.

"That they're not very punny? Get it, punny?" Her mother giggled as if she had invented the most humorous joke.

"Ha ha. Twice is going overboard."

"I know! See what happens when you leave me! Next, I'm going to be only able to talk in limericks!" Lorelai wailed dramatically. "I have no one to balance my brilliant repartee! You have to come home now!"

"Only two more weeks, mom. I think your comedic career can stand to wait until then."

"Fine. But when you get home, we're crashing Saturday Night Live."

"Mom, you have a life-time ban there from the last time we did that." She joked back, 

"That wasn't my fault! Besides who could say no to my pretty face?" Lorelai continued in a more serious voice, "so, who were you expecting?" 

"What?"

"When you answered, you sounded as if you were expecting someone else."

"Oh, um, no one really…I was telling…Lane, yesterday about a paper that I had to write about a social issue, and I thought…it was her again." She sweated, praying her mother didn't pick up on her hesitations. Across the room, Paris snorted loudly, the flaunting smirk again on her face.

"Oh, okay. What was your issue? You sounded really excited about it." 

"Welfare reform actually."

"Welfare reform? Aw, my baby's getting a social conscience!" Rory waited a moment for some probing comment about how she felt about the current system and why she thought her ideas were good enough to fix it. She was disappointed when it didn't come. She shook her head and reminded herself that this was her mom here—deep philosophical musings were not her forte—and not…Jess. But there was a subtle deficiency in the chatter, a lack of substance that she had never noticed when talking to her mom, and it was disconcerting.

Lorelai hadn't noticed her daughter's silence. "So the strangest thing happened today?"

"Really? Did Kirk move out and now is your roommate?"

"Stranger, although can I say 'ew'?"

"Babette and Morie adopted a platypus?"

"No, but I shall have to suggest that to them."

"I give up, what happened today?" Guessing games with her mother could last a very long time.

"A daughter of mine giving up after only two tries, can it be? Who are you and what have you done with Rory?"

"Ah ha! You found out that I was abducted when I was fourteen and am really just a clone of your daughter?"

"Yes! Or no. So I go to work this morning, same as usual, and guess who I found leaving coffee on our front steps?"

"You caught the coffee fairy! Oh Mommy, is she pretty?"

"Honey, how many times do I have to tell you that the coffee fairy isn't real? No, this 'fairy' was none other than Jess!" 

"Jess?" Rory questioned, trying to keep a steady voice. Her heart had suddenly started beating in double time.

"None other than the resident hoodlum himself. I asked him what he was doing and he made up some story about how Sookie had ordered some from the diner and skedaddled. Sookie was as mystified as I was." Lorelai still sounded puzzled, as if she was still working on the mystery. 

"Was the coffee any good?"

"Well, after we feed it to the cat, and it didn't die—"

"Mom, really."

"You never know! Yes, the coffee was good. And so were the Danishes."

"He gave you Danishes too?" Her heart hadn't slowed down; instead it was pounding madly against her temple. 

"Yeah, the strawberry cream cheese ones I like so much."

"Maybe he was trying to apologize for what happened with, you know, me and …Luke."

"It'll take a lot more than free coffee and Danishes to make things right, Rory."

"I know, I just wish… Maybe you could give him another chance."

"Maybe, honey." Lorelai's voice resonated with skepticism. "Hey, you knew that Jess was back?"

"Um," she stalled, suddenly feeling like that proverbial deer in the headlights. Caught. Panicked. "Lane must of mentioned it." She invented quickly, praying that she sounded convincing, making a mental note to call and corroborate the story with Lane. She hated lying, but in the circumstances…. She had managed to avoid all mention of Jess in her conversations with her mother, with anyone, not on purpose exactly. His name never came up and it was too…awkward bringing him up herself. Lorelai would probably be on the verge of homicidal, finding out now about their nightly chats, even with free coffee.

She breathed a sigh of relief as once again, Lorelai did not pursue the exchange and went on to regale Rory with Sookie's latest cooking mishap. The conversation didn't last long. Rory had lost interest in any of the town news and begged off with excuses of papers. She hung up the receiver with a deep sigh. 

"Hear any roosters recently?" 

She jumped at Paris's mocking voice. "What?"

"Lying to your mom, what was it, three times? Surely a cock should be crowing his head off. That is what happens to liars, isn't it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." She denied coldly, picking up her book in a determined effort to ignore her roommate.

"And all over a boy. Jess. The diner boy, right? I remember…I lied to your boyfriend about him too, covering your guilty conscience. Interesting."

Rory remained silent, her face and ears burning, forcefully disregarding the satisfied look on Paris's face.

Paris leisurely slid off the bed, deliberately keeping her gaze on Rory as she slowly tied her shoes, arranged her books and sauntered across the room. She paused at the door. "You know," she remarked sardonically, "maybe Miss Moral Gilmore isn't as perfect as she'd like the rest of us to believe. But would _Jess_ really remain your _friend_—" her emphases were biting "—if he knew how ashamed you were of him. Think about it."

The slamming of the door did nothing to alleviate Rory's guilty conscience. For a long time, she didn't move and her face burned in shame, as the shadows encased the room. 

A/N: A couple of things. I tried really, really, really hard to avoid sounding like I was taking a stand on the issue of abortion (which seems to be the cause of the week on ff.net). I know what a tricky and tender topic it is to many people, and as a doc-in-training, I'm expose to both sides on a daily basis, so that's what I tried to portray. Also, I know next to nothing about politics and the government—all of the stuff about welfare, I pretty much just pulled out of a pretty box, and I tried hard once again to avoid shoving it down your throats. That said, if anybody feels like telling me that I failed and ideas on how to improve would be greatly welcomed: jcd1013@yahoo.com. 


	6. Those tender hurt feelings

Disclaimer: I just had to take out another ghastly loan for med school. Do you think I'd be doing so if I had royalties rolling in? Obviously not mine. Lyrics from "Time is a Healer," _Eva by Heart_ (yes, I know it's about breaking up—work with me here, okay?) Three lines of dialogue were inspired/modified from GG episode 4.03 "The Hobbit, the Sofa, and Digger Stiles." 

Dedicated as always to my wonderful reviewers: secretstar, roxybluegirl7 (from LJ), columbiachica, Stew Pid (sorry, I forgot you!), AvidTVFan, and Kimlockt! I deeply appreciate everyone who has taken the time to read this fic and those that have provided me with feedback. Special big thank you to AvidTVFan who not only reviewed to tell me to write fast, she also advertised for me. 

Like Never Before:

Chapter 8

_I spoke such harsh words before goodbye _

_Well I wanted to hurt you for the tears you made _

_You made me cry _

_All my hopes and dreams, well they started vanishing _

_Those tender hurt feelings became a dangerous thing…_

"Did anyone call for me?" Rory asked, dumping her things, as usual, on the floor. The floor was becoming quite littered—a shirt and shorts that Rory wore yesterday were lying by the desk, four of her novels were scattered next to the door, and crumpled paper from when Rory had written her social issue paper were next to bed. 

Paris gritted her teeth to prevent the sigh of annoyance from escaping. 

"I don't know." Paris answered curtly. "I unplugged the phone."

"You unplugged the phone?" Rory repeated slowly. "Why?"

"It wouldn't stop ringing and it was disturbing me. Which, you are doing also, so if you would mind?" Paris gestured vaguely towards the door. She was tired, and developing a headache—her project with her representative had turned out to be more work than she had bargained for. It more than grated that Rory had gotten placed with a senator from Connecticut, and she, Paris the Student-Body President, had been stuck with a one-term tenured Republican from Utah. 

Her only consolation was that Brad had been stuck with an absolute ogre from Texas down the hall, which meant the two of them could get together on their few free lunch hours (what was with these stuffy politicians and their blatant disregard of the child-labor act?) and hash out their resentment. Brad managed to elicit a couple laughs with his witty caricatures of his representative, which was convincing enough to send a nearby intern into a deep throttle panic. It still felt odd smiling and laughing—she hadn't realized how little she had done either until she felt the weird superposition on her normal expression, like folding your hands the wrong way—but it was becoming a more natural, although still infrequent, reaction. Oh, Brad still managed to irritate her at least three times a day, but somehow, the lunches made the whole day better.

However, today, Rep. Black had actually thrown back her proposal for an office efficiency appraisal and informed her in curt terms that she didn't have the time or the resources to even consider such a project. Hence the headache. And Paris, the self-proclaimed "I-thrive-on-stress" with never a headache in her life, was beginning to resign herself to the constant throb. 

On top of this, Paris somewhat regretted her words to Rory a few days before and being in her company made her uncomfortable—not to mention that the tension in the room had risen tenfold. Terse silence, broken only by brief, absolutely necessary conversation had once again descended between them. She couldn't deny finding out that Rory was cheating on her boyfriend with the diner boy and lying to her mother on top of it all was the best scandal she could wish for. Part of her still itched to call Madeline and spread the news that Rory Gilmore wasn't as perfect as everyone thought. 

But she had seen Rory's anguished face at her accusations, and for some reason, she kept hearing the sloshed advice of her mother. When the lack of friends in her daughter's life and therefore the stain on her reputation too obvious, Mrs. Gellar had decided the best way to reform her daughter was to buy self-help books and lecture from that. Her favorite had been one of proverbs and deep sayings—it made her feel educated to be quoting from famous people. So in between the makeup lessons and mandatory parties, Paris's life was filled with clichéd "words of wisdom." By the age of 14, she loathed Ben Franklin, Thoreau, Oprah, and especially Richard Simmons for his "you can't love anybody until you love your body" attitude.

Now those phrases replayed over and over in her throbbing head. It was crazy. Even after four weeks of living with the girl in near silence, with all the evidence pointing to the fact that they could have at best a working acquaintanceship only, Paris couldn't deny that she still wanted to be friends. Friends. It still made her laugh that just over a year ago, she was directing Louise and Madeline to ignore the threatening new girl and now she would have given anything if Rory would talk to her the way she talked to her mom or her friend, Lane—joke with her, confide in her, rant about their politicians, become _Rhoda_ to Rory's _Mary Tyler Moore_. Oh, yes, life was funny sometimes.

But apologizing was not one of her strong points—she couldn't even think of the last time she was wrong enough to warrant such an action. Maybe her mother and ol' Ben were right—in any case, she was desperate enough to try almost anything, just to get things back the way they were. She opened her mouth, in an attempt to find some words of regret—

"Paris!" Rory exploded, placing her hands on her hips. "I was expecting a call today from Senator Riley's office to tell me when I'm supposed to be at the Senate tomorrow. Great. Now, they're going think that I'm some flake. Would it kill you to answer the phone once in a while?" The sarcasm was cutting.

"Yes, it would." Paris snapped back, her apologies fleeing back to the recluses of her mind. "Contrary to popular and misguided opinion, I am not your messenger service. Buy an answering machine if you're so worried about missing calls during your frolics!"

"You know, it could have been for you too."

Paris stared up incredulously at her roommate, all urgings to be nice gone. "Right. Of course. Wow, I knew you were completely consumed with Mr. Casanova, but I hadn't thought that you were losing brain cells too. How else could you have not realized that the phone hasn't been for me all summer?"

There was a strange look on Rory's face. "It could have been Jamie. I told him to call you."

"Jamie? Who's Jamie?"

"Jamie, I don't know his last name. The intern in my office, remember? I know I told you about him. He heard your speech last week, and he sat at our table at the Lobby luncheon. Anyway, he wanted to meet you. So I told him where you studied and … I gave him our number."

For a moment she just stared at this strange...thing that now inhabited Rory's body. There was no possible way—she had just misheard, right? No, this explained the unfamiliar guy who had come up to her in the library that day. She had squashed his suave attempts at conversation with curt no nonsense. When that didn't work, she left. And it had all been Rory's doing.

Paris jumped to her feet, seething in anger. All of the rage, the resentment that she had been feeling came boiling to the surface. "Great, so Rory Gilmore has decided to make me her pity project. Again. Because obviously I am such a social reject that no guy would date me unless Rory begs and pleads. What did you offer him this time, Rory? Is he another one that you think you can just pass on to me, even though he only has the hots for you? Your kindness moves me!" Her voice rose with every syllable.

"No, I—" Rory defended.

Paris cut her off. "Oh, save your sob stories. You just enjoy running everybody else's life, because you're _Rory_ and you're the town's sweetheart who can do no wrong and it's your job to make everyone as happy as you. Well guess what, Princess, the world doesn't revolve around you and we all know how happy you are too!"

"Oh trust me, I wasn't doing it out of the good of my heart. The guy liked you, okay? It's not like you have any luck getting them yourself!" Rory spat heatedly with deep sarcasm. "At least I didn't tell him that he shouldn't even bother; maybe I should have and saved him the time!"

"Yes, you should have! You don't get it, do you? I told you with Tristan to leave my life alone, but I guess you can't take the hint. So I'll spell it out for you. GET OUT OF MY LIFE!" She roared, losing every shred of control.

"Fine! Would love to! But someone insisted that I be here! And it's been such a joy living with you! " Rory shouted back, her cheeks crimson.

"Don't give me the tortured act. You hate it here, you hate me and you certainly haven't made my life blissful either. Fine, then, go. Head back to your precious Stars Hollow. Go! I'm certainly not making you stay! Just get out of here!" Not wanting to hear anymore, not certain that she could stand another look at Rory's malevolent face, she stalked quickly out of the room, slamming the door as hard as she could.

Breathing hard, she made her way down the hallway, eyes snapping at all who dared glance in her direction. She had no idea where she was headed; she just knew that she had to get out of the building and fast.

Her furious strides took her to the union building, where she, still in a blind rage, bought the largest chocolate she could find, daring the pimples to try and show their heads. It was stale, the chocolate breaking into shards with each violent bite, but she paid it no heed. 

Her feet had taken her halfway back to the dorms before she realized where they were heading. There was no way that she could go back. She didn't want to see Rory—part of her still wanted to rip into her and the other was scared that Rory would continue her tirade of faults. The rage was slowly draining away and all she wanted to do was curl up in some place where no one would ever find her. She clung tenaciously to her departing rage—she wasn't ready to feel guilty yet. 

But somehow her feet were still leading her towards the dorms. She turned aside from her normal path and walked down an unfamiliar hall. Stopped in front of 106B. Raised a hand and knocked.

Brad answered the door, a perplexed and somewhat scared look spreading across his features. "P-Paris?" he stuttered. "Wh-what—"

"Look. I don't know why I'm here. Don't ask questions!" She ordered, as he opened his mouth again. He stepped back slightly. She felt a twinge of remorse—Brad was looking very much like he did before, before they had talked and she decided that he wasn't so bad. It wasn't his fault, the fight with Rory. She pushed her voice to a calmer pitch. "I can't go back to my place. Can I study here for the afternoon?" 

"Um," he hesitated and glanced back in his room. Paris looked around him and saw four frightened-looking boys huddled around a computer, staring up at her with wide eyes.

"Forget I asked." She muttered, her face inflamed with embarrassment. It was one thing to admit to Brad that she needed help, quite another to announce it to the whole geek ensemble.

"Paris, wait!" Brad pleaded as she turned on her heel. "Guys, we'll do this later." There was a murmur of agreement, a quick shuffling of papers and bags. The boys filled out of the room, eyes cast to the floor, avoiding brushing against her. She waited in silence as they left. "We were trying to network our computers together, but we weren't getting anywhere—lack the proper LAN connection…." He trailed off, noticing that she had tuned him out at the first sentence. She stared blankly at the wall, the white cement blocks fading out of focus as the reality of what had happened finally started sinking in. "You wanna come in?"

She followed him in blindly. He pulled off a pile of laundry off his bed and shoved it hastily in the closet. "Laundry day, didn't get a chance to finish…" The bed was made at least, a home-style denim block quilt pulled neatly across the bed. She sat down gingerly, completely out of her element. Brad took the bed across from her, pushing aside mounds of blankets and stuff to find an empty spot. Tad, apparently, was a bigger slob than Ro— She shut her mind off at the thought of her.

She felt physically sick. Her stomach was rolling and her head's pounding had risen to jackhammer intensity. She instinctively glanced around for a garbage can—good, there was one in easy access if she needed it, but she steeled her stomach. She would have to get deathly ill before she showed such weakness in front of anybody. 

She kept her glaze on the cement walls, refusing to meet Brad's eyes. All reason had left her and she had no idea of what possessed to come here. He seemed content just to let her sit there, for he made no attempts to draw out conversation. He folded his hands together and looked at the floor, inspecting the title of a book. A comfortable silence descended between them and suddenly Paris knew why she had come, although there were no words to explain why. Confiding in Brad just seemed right, natural even.

"Rory told me she hated me," she stated flatly, glancing up quickly at him. The scared look had vanished from his face but otherwise she couldn't read its expression. She focused again on the whitewashed walls. "We—we had a fight and she told me that—" The rest of the sentence clogged in her throat; her pride preventing her from pouring out everything.

"And what did you tell her?" His voice was neutral, although he looked like he felt he was the last person to be asking for advice. In less desperate times, she might have agreed, but what was the saying about beggars being choosers?

"I told her to get out of my life." The bitter feelings surfaced again. "It makes me so angry! Who does she think she is? Do I have "Rory's Pet Project" tattooed on my forehead? Do I?" She demanded.

"What did she do?"

"She set me up! With an _intern_! I've never met him, until he accosted me today."

"What?"

"His name is Jamie. What kind of name is that? _Jamie_. Sounds like one of Robin Hood's Merry Men. She's done this before, you know. Last year with Tristan."

"Oh, Tristan. How could any one forget?" He smiled faintly.

She pounced on the smile. "What do you mean?" She fired back.

"Paris, your outrage was felt all over the school—the halls, the classrooms, I bet it even penetrated the locker room."

"Oh, so I was gossip when sweaty boys showered, was I? I want details. Names and phone numbers." She bristled, stung at yet another piece of evidence of the deep dislike everybody felt for her.

"Do I look like the kind of guy who sits around in my towel and swaps stories?" He asked incredulously.

She paused in her rant. Brad had changed from his dress shirt and slacks into a tee shirt that read "I've got more Byte than you." Between his wavy blond hair, skinny face and ears that stuck out too far, there wasn't an ounce of jock in him. "No," she admitted finally. 

"Okay. I didn't even know you then." He frowned. "Are you going…to do it, I mean go out with Jamie?" There was the same strange look on his face as there had been on Rory's when she had told her about Jamie—as if she had said something worrisome and he couldn't figure out how to process it. She interpreted it as welfare for her safety and something deep inside was touched by his concern. 

"Of course not!"

"Good." He sounded relieved.

"I read the news and I know what happens to interns who go on blind dates—they end up dead in some park, their bodies decaying when found by some runners." She thumped her hands emphatically on the bed, disgust riddling her voice.

"So, if you're not going to do it, why are you so upset?" He probed, his voice puzzled.

She began her long list of grievances, becoming angrier by the mere memory of them. "Because I'm sick of being Rory's good deed. Because she didn't ask me if I wanted to be stalked. Because—"

He interrupted, "Because you're afraid that she doesn't like you and thinks so little of you that she would pass you on to all the creeps.

All of her righteous indignation dissolved away into emptiness, leaving her limp and so tired. She sagged back on the bed, her shoulder slumping. Tears gathered in her eyes and she didn't have the strength to hold them back. "Yeah," she choked around a sob. "I think I blew it this time."

Brad got up abruptly. "Hold on," and he left the room. He was back before she had noticed his departure. "Here." he said, handing her a wad of toilet paper. 'I don't have Kleenex, but it's from a new roll."

She sniffed and wiped her eyes. "It wasn't just the fight…I found out…some stuff…about Rory and…I threw it back in her face. We haven't gotten along…all summer, …she didn't talk to me…for two weeks…and it's been awful," she finished in a gulp and blew her nose noisily. "What am I going to do? I mean… She didn't want to live with me, but I've tried really hard to be a good roommate, to be her friend, but obviously I'm just too much to deal with."

"That doesn't sound like Rory."

She scoffed. Everybody always came to the defense of the little darling. "No, Rory's too much of a coward to say what she really feels. That why she sticks with her boyfriend because she won't tell him he's boring because it would hurt his feelings." 

"That—that was rather harsh."

"Yeah, well, 'nice' isn't my middle name." She barked defensively. Her nose was bright red and she knew that her cheeks must be blotchy and swollen. She definitely wasn't one who could cry prettily. Already, she felt embarrassment at having lose her control and actually crying, bawling like she was four. 

"So what—what are you going to do? You probably need to apologize." He probed awkwardly, after a pause. 

'What are you, my therapist?" She lashed out, her anger boiling to the surface. He blushed brightly and withdrew from the edge of the bed; he lowered his gaze to the floor again and didn't say anything. 

She felt awful. He had been nothing but supportive and it had been her who had dumped all of this on him—she who had never needed help with anything. He was acting like a friend, her one friend and she still treated him like garbage. Bow down to her, the queen of slime.

"I'm…I'm sorry, Brad." The words felt like peanut butter in her mouth, but he deserved an apology. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I do that all the time—lash out. It's not just Rory, you know. Everybody's scare of me. Paris the Terminator, I cause fear wherever I go. You were scared of me, still are. And nobody really likes me. I know that. " She was crying again. "Do you know why I'm even here? Why I'm president? Because I ran with Rory and Rory is sugar-and-spice and everything nice. And I'm not. Nobody voted for me. They voted for Miss Congeniality." 

"I voted for you." 

She looked up at him; he was still staring at the floor. "Why?"

"Because—" he seemed to rethink his original reasons, "because you were the most competent. You knew what you were doing."

"Well, you were the only one. Maybe you should get a new tee-shirt that reads 'Sucker'."

"Okay, enough." He stood up and continued in exasperation, still avoiding her gaze. "Paris, just stop—stop tearing yourself down like that. People do like you."

"Tell that to my empty Valentine's box in elementary school." She snorted derisively. 

"I've seen you with your friends—um, Madeline and Lisa?"

"Louise."

"Yeah. You can't tell me that they just follow you like puppies because you're blackmailing them."

She smiled faintly at his peculiar attempts to cheer her up. "Their mothers are in the same committees as my mother."

"And so are everybody else's mothers. They like you."

"Maybe." She wasn't convinced. Brad was the home-schooled politician kid, complete with the stay-at-home mother; there was little way that she could explain the inner workings of the socialite elite.

"So what if you're not the popular one? I never thought you were one who even cared about that." 

She glared at him, irritated once again. "I don't! Do I look like a cheerleader with fluff for a brain, who only cares if Biff is going to ask me to the next dance? But a little respect and a couple of 'hi's' in the hallway might be nice for a change. Is that asking too much?"

Brad looked up and made finally reestablished eye contact. She was surprised, stunned to discover that he was grinning, shaking with laughter actually. She gaped at him, unsure of what to make of this reaction. He shook his head as he rocked in virtual hysterics. She was momentarily mesmerized by the wave of his sandy hair, the way it captured the glints of sun through the blinds and turned gold. Paris shook her own head vigorously, not wanting to even think of where _that_ thought had come from. That's what crying got you—a headache and a soggy brain. 

He got his voice in control. "You do know that you have major confidence issues, don't you?" He said around another chuckle.

"Somehow that doesn't seem very funny." She grumbled, unsettled that he would actually laugh at her.

He grinned wider. "I was just picturing you with a guy named Biff. You hanging off of his muscles, barking orders to his buddies. Come on, you have to admit, it's pretty funny. Paris and Biff."

A smile twitched the corners of her mouth. 

He stood up abruptly, the bed creaking violently in protest. "Come on. I don't know about you but I'm starving. And I can't stand the thought of one more day of cafeteria food. There's a reason that they should ban the use of lima beans in chili."

She hesitated. She wasn't that hungry and exhaustion was threatening to overtake her. 

"There's this Indian restaurant just off the Metro at Woodley Park. We could get some takeout, go to Rock Creek Park and, I don't know, play Frisbee or something."

"I don't know, Brad."

"Come on," he wheedled, "Getting out of here will do you good and give you time to think. Besides, as your therapist, I work better outdoors." His eyes twinkled.

She blushed deeply. "I said I was sorry."

"Don't be. Can you imagine how great my resume will look now that I can say that I was Paris Gellar's personal therapist? Although, I have to say, you've drained all of my expertise. All I can manage now is 'dude'." His smile was infectious and she found herself responding, the deep depression lifting for the first time all day. 

He held the door open. The idea of escape, of leaving all of her problems behind and just enjoying one evening was alluring. She nodded, and brushed past him without further disagreement.

* * *

It was late, after ten when Paris and Brad returned, the dusk long since faded to the murky grey of the city. The evening had been, she admitted, unexpectedly wonderful: a reprise from the stress of the day and all of her concerns had momentarily drained away. They hadn't talked much, just sat at a picnic table and watched the joggers as they ate, then threw the Frisbee back and forth. He teased her about her atrocious skills and she, at one point, had stuck her tongue out at him, her impulsive act of childishness surprising both of them and they dissolved into snorts and gasping giggles.

Too early, the pleasant evening dissolved away. The dread returned with the setting of the sun, reminding her of the problems that she still had to face. Her feet dragged home with great reluctance, and Brad's cheerful chatter became subdued. She had feebly bid Brad good night—thanked him for the dinner and nodded at his brief inept words of encouragement and made her way up the stairs, the pit of her stomach gnawing again in fear.

She clutched her arms close to her side, feeling cold as she made her way slowly down the deserted halls—it looked like most had called it an early night. The dread turned in her stomach and it was an effort putting one foot in front of the other. Almost, she turned to flee, anywhere but here.

Almost. She steeled herself and prayed to whatever-god-to-whatever-religion-that-would-listen that the room would be empty and she could put this off for just a while longer, maybe forever if they were really generous with their blessings.

The door creaked loudly as she pushed it open. Rory lay on her bed, stretched on her stomach with the phone to her ear and her back to the door. She looked up briefly at the noise.

"Um, Jess" Rory continued into the phone, her hair falling over her face, obscuring anything that Paris could read there. "I have to go….Yeah, she just got back…Okay….I know….And, um, thanks. For everything….Talk to you tomorrow?….Bye….."

Paris crossed the few feet to her bed and sat gingerly on the edge, waiting for Rory to finish her conversation. She chewed on the edge of her fingernail, staring fixedly at a snow-globe perched on Rory's desk—a gift that she had obviously bought for her mother; no one else would ever want such a gaudy gift, with the major monuments clustered around cherry blossoms and a brilliant pink banner proclaiming "Welcome to D.C.!"

She continued to stare at the globe long after Rory hung up the phone, trying to convince herself that it was because she was making sure she had visited all of the importance sites. Had she visited the FDR Memorial yet? 

Rory didn't say a word and Paris could not force her eyes over in Rory's direction. The silence deepened and virtually crackled with tension—she thought it ironic that it if had been this quiet this afternoon, their fight would never have happened.

Fifteen seconds passed. Thirty. Each lasted an eternity.

"I'm sorry." The words were hoarse—contrary to popular opinion, apologizing did not get easier with practice. She had hoped that just maybe, perhaps, her earlier apology to Brad would have broken some internal dam. Finding the next words was even more difficult and she stumbled over them, stuttering. "I, I…shouldn't have…I mean…I shouldn't have said…what I…did. And…I'm sorry." She stopped, unsure of how to continue, her eyes never budging from the Washington Monument in the globe. If she looked out the window, she would see the tip of the same building soaring over the trees, an effulgent glow in the moonlight. Strangely, she found the thought comforting, perhaps if she looked hard enough, she would find a miniature version of herself who had escaped all of this.

Rory didn't say anything. Not a word. Paris waited, expectantly, for some kind of reaction—a noise, a hand gesture, something. Tears pricked her eyes and she brushed her hand across her face angrily. Fine. She had humiliated herself and she was tired of feeling embarrassed and vulnerable. She had tried to make things right, something she now swore she'd never do again. It hadn't worked, and if Rory wasn't even going to acknowledge her efforts… Well, it didn't matter and she didn't care. Really.

She reached across and grabbed her pillow, the tears hot in her eyes. There was a couch out in the commons area—she'd sleep there tonight and talk to the R.A. in the morning, demand a room change. But there was no way she was sticking around here.

She pawed for her toothbrush, a dozen emotions threatening to overcome her—anger, hurt, bewilderment—emotions so foreign that she lacked words to describe them.

"I don't hate you." Rory said quietly. Paris looked up, her hand paused over her pajamas. Rory had shifted, her feet tucked under her. She brushed her hair back from her face and Paris noticed for the first time the telltale puffy cheeks. The afternoon had not been easy on Rory either.

"You don't like me though." Paris observed, feeling the sting of the disclosure. She wasn't sure if she really wanted to hear the answer, but she was too tired to care anymore. She wanted to hear the truth so she could just leave and leave everything behind. 

Rory didn't answer right away. "Sometimes, you make it…hard. But I do like you." She continued more hesitantly, a hint of justification in her voice. "But you…you…you haven't exactly liked me either."

Paris was too exhausted for any type of pretense. "No." She admitted, dropping her hand limply to her side. "I didn't. You were…perfect. You came in and breezily took the life that I had spent all of mine trying to get. I hated you. And then I didn't. But it was too late." 

"I guess we still have some things to work through." Rory smiled slightly.

"I don't know what you expect from me." Paris confessed in a low tone.

"I don't know either." Silence lapsed between them. "So what now?"

She shook her head, and then in a rush of honesty, said softly, "I want to be your friend. I mean…Remember that night that I stayed over? That's the first time I've stayed over at someone's house since I was ten. My mother called Bethany's and demanded that I be invited to her birthday party too. So Bethany and her friends spent the entire night throwing popcorn at me. I woke up with toothpaste in my hair.

"So you asked me to stay over and even though we didn't braid each other's hair or stay up until dawn talking like you're supposed to do at slumber parties, I thought, wow, maybe Rory and I are friends. That's why I asked you to be my running partner."

"Oh. I didn't…It didn't mean…"

"To me it did." She stated flatly, her voice masking any shred of emotion.

Rory appeared to digest what Paris had told her. It struck her, what she had revealed to Rory and the vulnerable feeling made her ill to stomach again. It was almost worse now, having exposed herself and now waiting for the verdict. 

"Okay."

"Okay what?" 

"Friends. We can try being friends."

"Friends? Just like that?" Paris repeated dubiously. "We've barely said two words to each other all summer and now you'll wave your magic wand and it'll be all better?"

Rory shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe. I don't hate you, you don't hate me—it's a start. Couldn't we just start over at the 'Hi, I'm Rory and you are?' stage and try it?"

Paris shook her head. "I don't know. I don't think they've invented a memory eraser yet."

Rory gaped at her for a moment, then broke into a wide grin. Paris matched hers. "I never realized that you were capable of making such cheesy jokes."

"Then you do not know me that well."

"I guess not… Okay?"

"Okay." The tension in the room ebbed away, as if there was no reason for it to stay: the skirmish was over with small victories on both sides. Oh sure, Paris wasn't delusional enough to think that they still didn't have things to work through, that everything was fine and dandy and they'd be exchanging first-borns, but for the moment, things felt…settled and there was an almost hopeful air about them.

"So where did you go this evening?" Rory asked as if to move the conversation to safer ground, tucking her knees under her chest. Paris was relieved—while it felt good to get some of this off her chest, she did not enjoy confessing her inner emotions for Rory's perusal. 

"Nowhere, really. We went for Indian food, threw a Frisbee in the park."

"We?"

"Um, Brad came too." She was reluctant to reveal this for some reason. People had a tendency to read too much into innocuous circumstances…

"Brad? Brad from our class Brad? I thought you hated him."

"I never said that." She defended quickly. Hate was very different from…strong dislike. 

A knowing grin spread across Rory's face, although surprise still etched her voice. "You and Brad? This is great! Why didn't you tell me?"

"What?" Paris sputtered. Her cheeks and ears were suddenly aflame.

"Brad hasn't said anything. Oh, I'm sorry. If I had known, I'd never had suggested that you date Jamie. You should have told me!" Rory's face had lit up and she was practically bouncing on the bed in excitement. 

"Me and Brad?" Pairs squeaked out in disbelief, "You think we're dating?"

Rory paused. "You're not? There's nothing between you two?"

"Nothing! He's just a sort of a something, a semi-friend. He's not even that. He's just…here."

"Oh." Rory considered the issue. "Darn?"

Paris raised an eyebrow. "Darn?" She repeated.

"Yeah, darn. The two of you would have been, I don't know, cute together."

"Cute?? Don't tell me, you've got stashes of _Seventeen_ under your bed and have been reading all about how to become just like Mandy Moore." Paris groaned in disbelief. 

Rory giggled. "You don't like cute?"

"Do I look like a 'cute' person to you? That's the second time someone has accused me of thinking like a cheerleader." She shuddered, but continued, more seriously. "Rory? Don't set me up again."

Rory pursed her lips. "I said I was sorry. I didn't know you'd react that way."

"No, but you do know that I like running my life my way." She stated emphatically, then in a lower tone. "It didn't work with Tristan, it's not going to work now."

"Okay." Rory nodded slowly in agreement. "No more setups. I didn't mean—I didn't mean to upset you. I honestly thought that you would like him." 

"Why? Because he's as socially backwards as I am and can't get a date without your help?" The hurt was still there in her voice—apparently, she hadn't purged all of her demons concerning Rory.

"No." Rory protested, her voice not changing in timbre. "Because he seemed like the type that you could be attractive to."

"You know my type?" Paris wasn't sure if _she_ even knew her own type. 

Rory smiled slightly again and waved her hand in the air. "He's smart and funny. And he's going to Princeton. Plus, he's the type that you could discuss the inner workings of the government and he would actually be interested and probably fight back with you, and he's interested in journalism, too, I heard him tell one of the other interns that he works on the campus newspaper. He's cute, too and he liked you. I don't know, he just seemed right for you."

"You really thought so?"

"Yeah." Rory defended.

"But he is okay, mentally? There's nothing wrong with him? He's not a sociopath or OCD is he? Does he brush his teeth every day? How does he dress? I bet he has a nervous tic, doesn't he? And—"

" Hey, just breathe. He's a nice guy, a little intense, but somehow I don't think you'd mind."

"Then why aren't you interested in him? There must be something wrong and you're not telling me."

"Um, I have a boyfriend, remember?" No, Paris hadn't forgotten, although she had suspected that Rory had. She stopped the thought—that was the type of malicious thinking that had put her in this situation to begin with.

"And you think I'd like him?"

Rory nodded. It hadn't occurred to her that maybe Rory had done this because she actually thought that there was a possibility… Without analyzing it deeper, she blurted out, "Do you have his number?"

Rory's face twisted slightly in confusion. "No, but I…I could get it for you." 

"No, no. That's alright." Paris blushed hotly under Rory's scrutinizing gaze. "Okay, I'll do it."

"What?" Rory sputtered.

"Just promise me that you'll never—and I mean never—set me up again and I'll give this Pretty Boy Jamie a chance."

"You're kidding, right?" Rory looked utterly shocked, and her mouth worked as if she was having difficulty forming her words. "Paris, you don't have to do it. It's okay, he's not going to get mad if I tell him you're not interested." 

Paris almost laughed at her disbelief. "Tell him he can call me. Tomorrow. And I'll talk to him. And see. I'm not making any promises, but…"

A dawning look spread across Rory's face. "This isn't because I thought that you and Brad…You don't need to prove to me that you're not romantically involved—I believe you."

"I know. It's not that. It's…" She trailed off, unable to find the words to even begin an explanation. How could she when all she had were strange emotions and she had never considered herself one of those touchy-feely personality types? She thought about what Brad had accused her of earlier that day. It was true, somewhat, she decided with sudden clarity. She was swayed by popular opinion—only she had been so steadfast in believing that nobody had anything nice to even think about her that she was determined to do exactly the opposite of popular opinion, just to show them that she was above their pettiness. And now look at her. She had been so sure that Rory had set this thing up with Jamie as some malicious trick—the thought that it might have been a kindly (albeit badly misguided) gesture had never even occurred to her. When had she become so pessimistic? 

She rubbed her eyes wearily. It was no wonder that nobody else liked her—she loathed the person she had become. She felt old, as if she had lived three lifetimes in this one day. More than that, she was tired, tired of herself, tired of hating herself. 

With that realization, the self-imposed blockades came crumbing down and the words just spilled out beyond her control. "This summer was supposed to be it. The big opportunity. No one knew me here, besides you and Brad, I mean. Do you know what that meant? It was a chance to start over, wipe out the last seventeen years. My chance to show everybody that, hey, Paris Gellar can be fun too. And we're now, what, five weeks into this never-ending nightmare, and it's exactly the same thing as home. Nothing's changed, and I'm just…sick of it all."

"Paris, I don't that going on a blind date is the answer—"

"That's not it." She interrupted. "It's me, I'm the problem." Today just proved it. All of her responses had been classic Paris—take offense, strike hard in retaliation and never mind who else got hurt. 

"Look," she continued, struggling to find the right words, "nothing's changed, because I haven't changed. I'm the same person I was when I came here, and unless I do something I'll leave the same way, angry, lonely, not trusting anybody and hating myself. So, yeah, I want you to set me up with Jamie, not only because it's probably time I added blind dates to the 'been there, done that' category, but because…I want to trust you, Rory, and not constantly think that you're just out to stab me in the back. So this is what I have do." The proverbial leap of faith. She'd probably end up missing the other side of the cliff and fall to her death, proverbially speaking, but at least, it'd be something different.

Rory had remained quiet throughout her tirade, an unexpected look of understanding flitting across her face. "Okay, no problem. I'll tell him, if you're sure?" Rory questioned once again, a stall that evidently a last chance for Paris to back out.

"Just do it." She stated flatly. "Don't ask me again, or else I'll start overanalyzing it, like always, and I'll be back where I started." 

Rory nodded and quiet descended between them, a comfortable, pleasant silence. Paris glanced over towards the window, again spotting the snow globe. This time, the gaudy touristy trinket cause a bubble of amusement to rise up—she was so relieved with how things had turned out, she was practically giddy. She, Paris Gellar, had an almost uncontrollable urge to bounce on her bed and whoop loudly…. Yeah, there was a sure sign of hysterics.

"Oh gosh!" Rory exclaimed. "It's after one! I have to be at the Senate meeting by 7:30 tomorrow!"

"Mmm. I guess we should go to bed."

"Yeah, I'd hate to fall asleep and snore when Mr. Riley presents all of my research to the committee, without crediting me, obviously, the bastard." The venom was layers deep in her voice.

Paris stared Rory, who encapsulated the whole "if you can't say something nice" philosophy and was probably a mascot at Disney to boot—she had never heard Rory use such strong-for-her language. It was unnerving.

Rory laughed weakly at Paris's shocked face. She slipped a nightshirt over her head and reached for a pair of pajama bottoms and continued, "Sorry. Long day. I spent hours this past week researching the impact of his Medicare reform proposal. Believe me, the staff at the Library of Congress is getting to know me because I'm there so much.

"So today, everybody's super busy getting the final draft ready of what Riley's going to say and I find out that while the interns at least get their names on the proposal, I don't. Apparently, because I'm just a high school student, all of my work is dibs for grabs. I don't get anything—no credit, certainly no pay. Just 'experience'!" 

"At least you get that. Black just thinks that I'm one of her many gophers. I've spent more time trotting little messages back and forth, I swear, I ought to become a postal worker. The woman apparently has not figured out the magic of email."

Pairs pulled her hair back in a scrunchy, then reached for her bottle of face toner. With the chocolate that she had consumed today, she could just feel the pimples developing. "A part of me is so looking forward to when I get into office and can trounce her and her ineptitude. Hopefully, by then, her constituents will figure out what an idiot she is and elect someone new."

The comb paused in Rory's hand, as she turned to Paris. 'You actually want to go into politics, after all of this?" She squeaked in disbelief.

"Maybe. Yes. It's…exhilarating on some level. I enjoy the challenge and I would love to take on some of these stuffy old geezers in a heated debate."

"I guess it does suit you." Rory admitted after closely scrutinizing her. She pulled back the covers and climbed into bed. "There's no way I could ever do this. I'm looking forward to saying goodbye to this all." She yawned widely, "Oh, I'm so tired!"

Paris flipped off the light switch, the room blackening in an instant. She made her way gingerly over to her own bed. "I thought you were used to this late night stuff—you are always on the phone long after I go to bed." She should have kept her mouth closed, she realized an instant later. Of all the tension that they had cleared up between them, the Jess thing hadn't been addressed and lay uncomfortably between them—too much for even sideways references.

Rory didn't seem to notice, as she answered around another yawn. "Not this week. The sleep deprivation caught up with me. So I told Jess that we had to move our conversations to nine so I can at least be in bed by eleven or midnight."

"Oh." 

Rory didn't say anything. As the silence lengthened, Paris figured that she must have fallen asleep, and turned over on her pillow to do the same.

She was just started to drift off, her thoughts relaxing into nonsense, when Rory's voice floated up softly in the darkness. "You were right, you know."

"Hmm?" She questioned sleepily.

"About Jess. About me…hiding him. I do. I shouldn't…I shouldn't lie to my mother and I do."

"Oh." Paris honestly couldn't think of anything else to say. Was Rory looking for advice?

"I kissed him, you know."

"No, I didn't." There, that seemed like a safe answer. 

'Before we came here. He had just moved back and I was just…shocked to see him, I guess, and I just…kissed him. I've never told anybody. Not even Lane. Certainly not my mother."

"Why not?" Her eyes were starting to adjust to the relative darkness—with the light across the parking lot shining directly in the room, not to mention the city glow, it never got completely dark—and she could make our Rory's form on the opposite bed.

Rory gave a short snort. "Admitting that you cheated on your boyfriend is not an easy thing to do and my mom hates Jess so much…I couldn't ever get the words out."

"Was he a good kisser?"

Her snort transformed into a startled laugh. "Yeah," she said after a moment, "he was good."

"So then, what's the problem?"

"I don't know. Me, I guess. I still love Dean, I guess. He's been so sweet to me."

"But Jess?" Paris probed, a little amazed that Rory was confiding in her, telling her things she hadn't told anybody else.

"He's my best friend. I've never had a boyfrie—, a guy friend before, not since kindergarten and Mark brought frogs, which disgusted all of the girls but me. We played together in the mud for a whole month until everybody decided that he had cooties."

"I haven't either. Now, I guess Brad is my friend." It didn't seem so odd admitting this aloud. Brad was her friend. Not best friend, no, not even close, but friend nevertheless. 

"Maybe it's normal, then. Being…attracted to them. I mean, maybe we think 'oh! Boy! Have to have hormones' and we confuse the friendship vibes with…something else."

"I have never been attracted to Brad." She quickly replied—she had already spent enough time squashing that belief this evening. One moment of fleeting psychosis did not count!

"Then maybe it is just me and I'm just messed up. Do you know what this is like? My mom has been my best friend since I was seven. I've told her everything. And in the three months, I've told her more lies… Shouldn't that be telling me something? Everybody seems to think that he's just out to corrupt me. Maybe he has and I just can't see his smooth moves."

"Do you think that's what's happening?" Paris asked in disbelief. She didn't know Jess that well, but he didn't seem that dangerous that fathers should be locking their daughters away and guarding the door with a shotgun. Sure, he had a James Dean complex, but his biggest problem was in moving to a town that was still stuck in _Little House on the Prairie_. 

"No" Rory admitted, rolling over onto her side, so Paris could make out her pale face. "They don't know him, nobody does. But nobody will trust me; they think I'm just a mindless victim who's been taken in by his charms. And Mom, mom's so upset at him for hurting me and for ruining her relationship with Luke that there's no such thing as a second chance with her."

"Wait, he hurt you?"

"Car wreck. Broken wrist."

"Ah."

"Yeah." She gave a dry chuckle. "I'm even starting to talk like him. Monosyllables. I just wish that I could talk to her about it!"

"Lorelai." Paris supplied.

"Yeah. Get advice. Stop lying, so I could feel close to her again. Jess asked me to choose, you know." The words were very quiet; Paris had to strain to make them out. 

"He did?" Paris was surprised, there hadn't been any hint in overheard conversation that he was pressuring her in any way.

"He told me that I was afraid of change and that I kissed him and I needed to decide. Between him and Dean."

"But…you haven't."

"No. I told him I needed time to think, and I've done nothing but try not to think about it this whole summer. But no matter what I do, somebody will get hurt. I don't want to choose between them! I shouldn't have to! But if Dean even suspected that I was still talking to Jess, he'd be furious. There's no way that he would believe that it was platonic."

Paris sniffed slightly. As much as Rory would like to convince herself otherwise, there was very little platonic in that friendship. A guy didn't call you every night and not have some other motive—Paris might have been socially backward, but she at least knew that. And Rory's behavior—well, it had been many weeks since she had heard anything endearing mentioned about Dean. 

But she kept her mouth shut about that. Rory obviously needed to get acquainted with her own mind and nothing Paris said could help that process. But then again, maybe it wouldn't hurt…"I'm not good at the dispensing of advice, but in my opinion, it's time that you do think about it and make a decision. It certainly hasn't gotten better by you just ignoring it and pretty soon everybody is going to find out that you have been keeping things."

There was a small silence. "I know." Rory confessed at last. "I just needed a kick in the butt, I guess."

"Considered it kicked." She paused, "Why did you tell me this."

Her voice was lightly surprised. "I know you think it's just because I couldn't tell anyone else, but…you do at least know Jess and you don't hate him, at least I don't think that you do. You're the closest thing to an impartial observer that I have—and I know from personal experience that you wouldn't hesitate to tell me that I'm behaving like a Sandra Dee turned black-leather-wearing, cigarette-smoking bimbo. And I trust you."

Paris's breath caught. Trust. Such a simple word, but it caused the tears to well up in her eyes again. Trust.

"Oh, man, it's so late!" Rory's now very sleepy voice interrupted her thoughts. "Maybe—" another audible yawn, "we should do this in the morning…. I'm so tired…" Her voice was fading away. "G'night."

"Good night, Rory." Paris whispered. Her body was exhausted—every cell seemed to be calling out begging for sleep, but her mind whirled, still trying to process the events of the day.

She turned over and firmly closed her eyes, willing sleep to overtake her body. Sleep, she needed sleep. Sleep would help her reclaim the control on her emotions that had gone haywire today. And sleep would make today yesterday and tomorrow would be today… Her thought processes slowed down and as she drifted off, it occurred to her—tomorrow might be the first day to which she had ever looked forward. And it promised to be a good one.

A/N: Producing this chapter was one of the most excruciating events of my life. The little fairy who sits on my shoulder left me and I had to extract each sentence word by word from the recesses of my brain (which incidentally is currently filled with the disease processes of anemia—not something that inspires creative thought). 17 pages later, I'm still not satisfied with it—I think it's one of the worst I've written. I hate dialogue. I have complete admiration for people like Holly Gilmore who can write 106 chapters of pure dialogue. But I decided to throw caution to the wind and post it and pray that it's not as bad as I fear. As always, I adore reviewers and would love to hear your opinion, even if it is that my stories suck and I should die a painful death for inflicting it upon the hapless readers. 

Oh, and as another aside: Can anyone tell what the official spelling is for Tristan/Tristin? I thought it was Tristin, but after reading some stories and seeing a few girls get thrashed for using that form, I figured I'd better play it safe and go for the other. It's not such a big deal, I probably won't mention him again, but, for my curiosity's sake…


	7. It's all over now, you've changed

Disclaimer: GG does not belong to me—the plot does however. Lyrics: "You've Changed," Eva Cassidy's _Imagine_. Some dialogue is taken directly from "Star Crossed Lovers and Other Strangers," of Gilmore Girls. And the book referred to is _Emily's Quest_ by L.M. Montgomery.

Many thanks as always to the wonderful people who review my stories. You guys took my breath away on the last chapter... To: **Karin, fan_fic reader, MiloliciousSTUDlover15, who cares, secret star, Elyssa, hah, k.ane, the Desert Fox,** and especially **Marissa (AvidTVFan) **and** Nate (MrSchimpf)**, thank you, thank you for your support. In all honesty, you are the ones who motivate me to write, and without you, I'd still be stuck on chapter 4. As always, this is for you. 

Like Never Before

Chapter 9

_You've changed_

_That sparkle in your eyes is gone_

_Your smile is just a careless yawn_

_It's all over now, _

_You've changed._

"Ugh! I am _so_ sick of reading these reports. Who honestly cares about how to properly address the chairperson?" Rory threw a notebook across the room. It hit the stuffed donkey and elephant that Lorelai had sent that week. Lorelai had sewn their arms together, so they were wrapped in a grotesque hug and proclaimed that she had finally brought peace to the political world. She had demanded that Rory bring it with her to work and tell her senator that he needed to find a Republican to hug, but Rory had squashed that idea. Sometimes, it paid to have a firm hand with her (albeit beloved) neurotic mother. 

"You wait for the chairperson to—"

"Paris," Rory interrupted with a faint smile. "That was a rhetorical question."

"Sorry for assuming you were witless." Her roommate retorted with an actual grin. 

Rory shook her head in amusement. It had been three days since their...fight, for lack of a better word, although since there had been very little yelling and crying, she probably ought to find a better synonym. The fight (disagreement? skirmish? dispute?), or whatever it had been had made a world of difference in their relationship. Three days ago, she had decided that she could never spend another hour in the same room with Paris and promptly started to compose the resignation letter to Headmaster Charleston. The post of vice-president certainly did not seem worth a year of torture, especially since it was a post she could cheerfully do without. 

She hadn't really cared either. She was so tired of the drama that she couldn't even build up any kind of outrage at Paris's latest actions. A part of her hurt at the thought of somebody actually hating her—it sounded silly, but she had always been able to win friends eventually. Sure there were people who didn't like her, but she had always felt that the discomfort had been there because they hadn't gotten to know each other and those relationships had never evolved into true apathy. She had cried to Jess about her frustrations, dissolving into tears that night; he had responded by gently teasing her that she didn't always have to be voted Miss Congeniality, which absurdly, had worked in comforting her. 

Jess had been amazing through the whole thing. She had worried about calling him, knowing that she would break down and probably freak him out—or worse, attain his disgust, by letting such petty matters as this trouble her. But the fears had been unfounded—he had sensed almost immediately that something was bothering her, and he had listened quietly as she sobbed out the story, Then without resorting to trite phrases of sympathy, he had, in a few short words, made her feel empowered—that she was strong enough to deal with this and that she had his full support. It lifted her out of her depressed mood better than anything anybody else could have told her and confirmed, once again, how much he had come to mean to her. It was also telling how she had chosen, for the billionth time this summer to call him and no one else—he was her best friend, one of the closest friends she had ever had outside her mother, and she felt eternally grateful for his presence on the other end of the phone.

In the end, she decided that it was inevitable: Paris had disliked her from practically the moment they met—the last incidents were hardly a deviation from the norm. So she had resolved quickly to make a clean break with good riddance and deal with the consequences later.

Then, just when she had washed her hands of it all, Paris had returned and actually apologized... It had taken Rory a few minutes to figure out that this wasn't some version of a cruel joke that only Paris would find humorous. But she had been sincere and it thawed Rory almost instantly.

And now, three days later, she and Paris were...friends. Or something. Their relationship never seemed to fit any typical molds, but it was definitely becoming more "friendish", more like typical roommates. Snap, just like that, as if somehow their awkward apologies had pushed the right buttons or dissolved some wall that had been between them. It was strange and Rory had almost given up trying to explain or even justify why. 

And Paris was growing on her. Rory was almost becoming fond of some of Paris's more "quirky" personality traits, as if she could finally see beyond the socially inept front to the real, somewhat warmer and friendlier girl. They had gone to see the Smithsonian Museum of American History the day before, and Rory had a rather enjoyable time. Instead of getting annoyed at Paris's tendencies to dominant a conversation, she only laughed at Paris's extensive tirade on women's health and rights in the workplace after seeing the exhibit on birth control. Paris, in her turn, had squished her snort of disgust when Rory predictably squealed over the _Wizard of Oz_ slippers.

Today, however, had been a long day and Rory was only too glad to kick off her shoes after her day in Mr. Riley's office. Politics was more exhausting than she had ever imagined, and even with Jess's encouragements running through her head, she had a hard time convincing herself that learning Roberts Rules of Parliamentary Procedures really would have any worth to her life. 

She had managed to convince Paris to skip the dining hall and they ordered pizza. Paris had even offered to sneak it into their room. While her technique of hiding it under a pile of laundry needed a little work, even Lorelai would have been astonished at her enthusiasm and excitement for "breaking the rules."

So with a pizza in one hand and papers detailing the democratic process scattered across the floor, Rory settled down for an evening of study, hoping that the ideas for her paper would come quickly, leaving her time to finish a chapter of _The Canterbury Tales_ (she had resisted buying a copy of _The Lord of the Rings_ and reading ahead and had to satisfy herself by digging out classics she had always intended to read; she was quite proud of her fortitude) before Jess's call. Paris, too, was intent on her studying, nibbling on a pen, which she'd occasionally talk around to gauge Rory's opinion on the inherent risk of a residentially appointed judicial branch of government. It was nice, so nice to be at least comfortable with each other.

Twenty minutes later, she was completely bored. Some aspects of politics were interesting, she could admit that, but learning the history of parliamentary procedure was threatening to put her to sleep. She tossed her notebook aside, and turned to Paris, a mischievous smile lighting her face. "So...you were on the phone for a while today."

"Not that long." Paris replied, not looking up from her work, the end of a pen hanging out of her mouth.

"Well...? Was it who I thought it was?" She tried to suppress the growing impatience and excitement, keeping her voice passively neutral.

"Yes. It was Jamie." She still didn't look up, but Rory detected a slight smile playing about the corners of her mouth. 

"Come on, Miss Brainy, your eyes are going to strain if you continue to pretend to ignore me and stare at the page!" She wheedled, an affectionate tone softening the insult, "Do I have beg for details?"

Paris sighed exaggeratedly, and took the pen out. "He called. He asked if I was enjoying my summer. I told him it depended on his definition; he made some awkward joke about double-checking with Webster. I pretended to laugh. He asked me out for coffee on Saturday, I agreed and now we're meeting at Starbucks." Her voice was flat and non-expressive; only a few days before Rory would have interpreted it as bored disinterest... Now, Rory was able to read the hidden mirth and the barely disguised worry underneath the cool demeanor.

She laughed brightly, her eyes twinkling up at her roommate. "That's great! I knew you'd hit it off." At Paris's brimming-with-skepticism glare, she laughed again. "Okay, maybe it didn't go that well, but still, you did say yes."

"He wasn't that bad. More like a Josh Lyman than a Sam Seaborn, but that's not too bad; I'd rather have the Deputy Chief of Staff to the president than the spin doctor of a writer—_West Wing_." Paris supplied at Rory's blank look.

"That's the one television show that Mom actually turned off. She said it made her think too much."

"Who cares? At least he didn't sound too condescending," she grudgingly continued, bringing the conversation abruptly back, "but, ugh. I hate trying to find conversation with a person I don't even know."

"But, you're excited, right?" Rory probed. Paris remained silent. "You're not? But... Hey, if you're having second thoughts, you can still back out. I'll tell him tomorrow that you're sick or something."

She snorted, flipping a wayward strand of blond hair behind her shoulder. "I'm way beyond second thoughts. Ninety-second thoughts is more like it. Yes, in a perverse way, I am excited. Or at least, that's what the butterflies in my stomach are telling me...But, I think I'm going to be sick long before Saturday comes." 

Rory breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment, she had been worried that Paris would back out. The more time she spent with Jamie, the more convinced she was that the two of them would really hit it off. Of course, there was a small part of her that regretted there was nothing between Paris and Brad—although she still suspected that more existed on Brad's end of things; the more she thought about it, the more sense all of his actions made—but if Paris was unwilling to pursue that, Jamie seemed a perfect alternative. "You're just nervous. It's normal."

Paris scowled. "No, really? And from which of your books did you pick that up? That's what I'm telling you! I'm so nervous that I can't see straight. I just about dropped the phone, I was trembling so bad. What am I thinking?"

"You're thinking that you going to have a nice time with a nice guy. It'll be fine."

"Right. That's exactly what I'm thinking." She threw aside her book, and a troubled look rested on her face. "Help me, Rory. I'm no good at things like this."

"I'm not going with you!" She warned, teasingly.

"No, no," Paris responded seriously, flustered, "I don't mean that—"

"Relax, Paris. I'll help you out. You can borrow some clothes and makeup, if you want. Oh! I bet Kate would do your hair; she did Brigette's for her date last week." She clapped her hands, excitedly.

"It won't matter. I'll scare him off within ten seconds and he won't have time to check out my hair."

"Oh, pfft. Stop." She stood up abruptly, flinging papers across the room. She walked over to her closet, opened it wide. "Okay. Lucky for you, I did laundry. Hmm, try on this pink shirt; there's a matching skirt." Rory held them out to her roommate.

"It's for coffee. I don't need to look like cotton candy for that."

"Hmm. Okay, how about jeans and this one?"

"How about tomorrow?" Paris asked, bitingly. She sighed and visibly moderated her tone. "Ms. Black wants this stupid paper tomorrow so that she can put it on the table with all the other papers I've written and never touched. I'm tired. I'm ornery, and I just want to be done, so I can go to bed. I appreciate this, but can we do it tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Sure. You're in the study mode. I ought to finish mine, too."

"Thanks." Her eyes were glued to the papers, the pen back in her mouth.

Rory moved back to her patch on the floor, and started gathering her papers again. She exhaled and checked her watch, the desire to study long departed. Still twenty minutes to go before Jess's call—she sighed again, and reluctantly picked up a pen.

The phone rang shrilly. Rory leapt to her feet, heedlessly scattering the newly resorted piles, while still managing to avoid the remaining pizza on the floor. "I'll get it!" she stated, a smile stretching across her face at Paris's sniff. Although things had changed considerably between them since their fight, as this evening of peaceable study and pizza attested, Paris still flatly refused to answer the phone and it had become a sort of joke.

"Paris Gellar's personal secretary. How may I direct your call?" she said saucily, sticking a tongue out to her groaning roommate.

"Uh, Rory?" An uncertain voice asked.

The smile faded from her face as recognition set in.

"Oh, hi Dean!" She said brightly, sinking into her bed. Paris looked up in surprise and met her eyes. She must have read something there, something that Rory couldn't begin to decipher, for without a word, she nodded and began gathering her things. As she walked out the door, her look was combination sympathy, and was that encouragement? Rory shook her head and turned back to the phone.

" ...You okay? I haven't heard from you for a while. I finally got the number of Lorelai. Did you get my letters?" His voice was tinged with hurt.

"I'm, I'm sorry, Dean. I've been really busy..." She finished lamely, knowing how pathetic of an excuse it must sound. "This whole thing has been, well, you know, hectic and stressful."

He sighed, his breath echoing loudly across the line. "I've just missed you."

She sidestepped the implied response, suddenly unable to tell him the same. "Yeah, I know."

"So," he questioned, "tell me about what you've been up to."

"Um, this week, I'm working on a bill that Senator Riley's introducing to Congress about medical reform. I'm gathering the research—"

"Ugh, politics." Dean interjected. "So have you seen the sites? The Lincoln Memorial?"

She paused. Jess would have never have interrupted her like that and brushed aside what she was saying. But then Dean had never been interested in this kind of stuff—he hadn't wanted her to come here to DC for that reason among many. Could she blame him when she was still unsure of whether she liked this? She tied to quiet a little voice in the back of her mind that insisted _Still, Jess would have listened to her recount the most boring of weeks._

"Yes," she replied, "and the Jefferson, which is my favorite. How have things been going for you? How's home?"

"Oh, you know, same old, same old. I've been working full-time at Doose's. Taylor says that maybe next year I can work as a junior manager and actually order some of the stock..."

She tuned him out, letting him talk, looking down at her watch impatiently. Jess was probably getting a busy signal. Oh, why did Dean choose now to call?

She shook her head, appalled at where her thoughts were leading. What was wrong with her? She was sounding as if it had been Louise or some other random person she was talking to, not her _boyfriend_! Had she actually forgotten that Dean, the guy that she had loved for over a year, was her boyfriend? And with a sinking feeling, she knew that she had. 

Sure, she had sent him a postcard, one of those generic "Wish You Were Here" cards from the Smithsonian the first week, but she couldn't even recall the last time she had even thought about him, beyond the casual "he's my boyfriend" reminder. And yeah, the conflict with Paris and this nightmare of a summer course were consuming, she could put some of the blame there, but that didn't excuse her for not making time for Dean, especially when she made sure she talked to Lorelai or Jess every night. No, she amended mentally: she made sure she talked to Jess every night. Of course, she had known how much she had been neglecting Dean, avoiding thinking about Dean, but now, she was appalled at her rotten behavior as a girlfriend.

Things had changed, the instant that she had kissed Jess, but being here in D.C. away from Dean and all of the reminders, she had lured herself into a pretense that things could still be normal—that when she went home, all of these problems would magically be fixed and she'd go on with her life, with both Dean and Jess in it. Of course she knew logically that it was never going to happen, but here, she had found escape, relief from the mess that she had gotten herself into. She had discovered in Jess one of the best friendships she had ever had and it had made everything right. Even after Jess had confronted her and gave her the ultimatum, she still couldn't force herself to come to any kind of conclusion, because she knew that if she actually dealt with it, thought about it rationally, everyone would lose. Herself included.

But all she was doing now was postponing the evitable. She'd be going home in a little more in a week and Dean would be there and Lorelai and there would be no place to run then. Dean, oh, she didn't want to hurt Dean. Never. That was what had held her back all summer from making a decision, knowing that no matter what she did, she was going to break someone. So, she listened to the nagging voice that told her she would end up destroying Dean for nothing more than a silly crush. 

But by pretending that there was nothing between her and Jess, not even friendship, which she knew she'd have to do if she chose Dean, she would end up hurting Jess even more. She...couldn't bear that. Hurting him would be worse than anything. He was her friend, he meant more than just about anybody. He was more...

Suddenly, her thoughts came together in such a violent click she almost dropped the phone. Her heart beat so hard, she was sure that it was audible to Dean; but he prattled on, oblivious to the sudden knowledge that had come over her.

The way Jess both challenged and respected her opinions. He expanded her perspective, showed her a new world of thought and at the same time accepted hers completely. 

The understanding that he provided, so she felt safe sharing anything and everything with him. And the feeling of connection when he told her about his life. 

How he had become number one on her speed dial when things went wrong, like with this week's drama with Paris. 

The jittery feeling every time she picked up the phone, hoping to hear his voice. 

Or the extreme disappointment when it wasn't.

The calm that she felt when she listened to him read—she escaped into the images that his voice invoked.

In that moment of clarity, Nirvana was hers and she knew. It was a feeling unlike another, a sweet, warm comforting feeling of perfect knowledge. And yet, it was familiar, as if it had been so infused into her soul that it had become part of her, and she was just giving it a name, an identity. It certainly wasn't what she had expected it to be—there weren't angel choirs and she didn't feel like bursting out in song, but this—oh, this was it. More than a feeling or an emotion, this was part of her being.

"I'm in love with Jess." The words slipped out of her mouth, barely audible over the rush in her ears and the sudden pounding of her heart. But they had been clear enough to Dean.

He stopped talking about his plans to go back to Chicago for a few weeks, the abruptness slapping her across the face. Silence, painful, tormenting, everlasting silence stretched over the line. She couldn't breath, her finicky heart refusing to beat now.

"You love Jess." It was more than a question, a statement of finality that begged to be refuted, dry ragged need haunting his voice.

She swallowed. She could no longer deny it, this love that lay at the very foundation of her being. She had read that phrase before in a book, when she was younger and had liked it. When she was twelve, she used to daydream about finding true love like that. Twelve didn't know a lot about love. She wasn't sure that seventeen did either, but she couldn't refute that the phrase resonated deeply now. Whatever she was feeling now was a lot closer to love than what she had thought previously, of that she was sure.

"Yes," she whispered. 

"How long."

"I don't know." Since her trip to New York? Or was it earlier than that? 

"Have you," he halted as if the words were too painful to say, his voice hollow and dead. "Are you dating him."

"No!" She protested faintly. "I haven't seen him in weeks." She had to be completely honest. Dean deserved that. Jess deserved that. No more hiding. No more lying. "We talk. On the phone. And I...kissed him. At Sookie's wedding." There. The words were finally out. Surprisingly, she felt no desire to take them back, although they hung heavily over the phone line. It was a relief, a burden removed. 

The eternal silence was back. She couldn't take it. "Dean, I'm...I'm sorry."

He cursed. "You think that helps? Rory, it took you months to say that you loved me, remember? I broke up with you because you couldn't say it. '_Saying I love you is a really difficult thing. I just need a minute to think. It's just not easy for me._'" He mimicked sarcastically. "And now, you tell me that you _love_ Jess. We had been dating six months, Rory, _six months_!! You've been gone, what is it, five weeks, but that's long enough for you to decide that you are in love with the scum of the streets. What is it, Rory, I don't have enough bad boy sex appeal for you?"

"That was mean." She replied quietly.

"Well, somehow I'm not in the mood to be nice." Anger laced his rising voice. And then, oh so quietly. "Did you ever really love me?" The question was evident this time.

"Yes..." She paused. She couldn't recall feeling _this_ before, not towards Dean. As much as she cared for him, maybe it hadn't been as much as she thought. "I don't know."

The click this time was audible and final. Rory sat on the bed, holding an empty phone in her hand. It hit her then—the finality of what she had done, the anguish she had inflicted. The abruptness of it all clouded her previous elation and surety. Again, a line from a book floated up: "what a nice, pleasant, friendly thing death would be." She had never yearned for death before, for complete oblivion. She did now. What had she done?

* * *

Endless minutes later, after a lifetime or more had passed, Paris's rather timid knock at the door filtered through her consciousness. She ignored it.

"Rory?" Paris's voice muffled through the door. "Are you still in there? It's been twenty minutes and my glutteal muscles are going to sleep and Gwen and Janet are arguing again, which makes it impossible to study, not that they care, and—" She stopped abruptly, and apparently decided to peer into the room herself, for the door creaked loudly open. 

Paris's attempts at conversation died. Rory started shaking uncontrollably, as the realization of her actions penetrated her body's defenses. The certainty of her decision had faded away, leaving her mind numb and cold; a faint thought wriggled through that she must have looked like a fright, with her hair falling over her face and she wondered, fleetingly, if she was freaking Paris out, before the thought dissolved into the dark abyss.

"Rory? Are you okay?" Paris asked, a tentative note in her voice.

Rory didn't look up. "I think I just broke up with Dean," she whispered and clutched the phone receiver tighter in her hand. But the tears wouldn't come. Why wasn't she crying?

"Oh." Under the curtain of her hair, she noticed Paris lingering hesitantly by the door. Part of her want to yell at Paris to get out, leave her alone, and the other part needed her more than anything. That part won out. Before Paris could inch her way out, she continued, "It just came out. One minute he's telling me about work and then the next... the next, I'm telling him that I'm in love with Jess." She gave a hollow, bitter laugh. 

Paris sat down on the foot of the bed, crossing her legs, still carefully keeping her distance. She didn't say anything and her hands were clutched tightly in her lap. Rory looked up for the first time and searched her roommate's face for answers and was stunned by what she found. There was no astonishment at Rory's actions, no disbelief, only a quiet look of understanding and faint relief; Paris's eyes were unexpectedly softened with sympathy.

"You're not surprised." Rory wondered if her voice sounded as ashen to other ears as it did to hers. 

"No, not really. It was rather obvious." Paris answered uncomfortably, looking out of her element. The relief because more prevalent, she noted tenuously, as if the girl no longer had to worry about letting something slip.

"To everybody but me, I guess. I really thought we were just friends, you know. Even after I kissed him—that was just crazy hormones taking over. No, no, I knew, I knew I was attracted to him, I tried to tell myself differently, but even my mom saw it, and you saw it, and.... And suddenly I just knew..." Her face softened for a moment at the thought of Jess, the first thought that penetrated the void of her mind. Jess, she mouthed his name, tasting it as for the first time. She pictured him and his wild hair, the warm feeling taking residence in her belly again. "We just clicked, you know. Everybody hated him, but he made me laugh and we could talk..."

"Yeah, I know. Hours." Paris responded dryly.

"Am I crazy?" Her mind suddenly started to work again in overdrive, thought speeding across her mind.

"What do you mean?"

"Paris, I just told my boyfriend of two years that I am in love with a guy that I've know for what, six months?"

"So?"

"So! I'm delusional! How can I possibly be in love with him?"

Paris's look was one of faint disbelief. "Is that some rule in a dating handbook that I don't know about? A timeline of when you can feel things and when you can't? Not before three months, but if it's after four, well then..." She made a slashing motion in front of her throat.

"No, but—" 

"I don't see what the problem is. If you love him, then it's okay."

"But that's just it! I say that I love him, but we're not dating. Sure I've kissed him, but was just one time. And I'm deciding that I love someone based on that." She was rambling and she knew it.

"No," Paris replied, in a matter of fact tone, faintly tinged with exasperation, "you decided because you've practically spent every waking moment of the last month talking to him, and not just about the weather. You got to know him, he got to know you. End of story."

Paris's words, a breath of reason, subsided her frantic thoughts. "Yeah, but..."

"Look," and her voice was usually soft for the outspoken girl, "you want advice? Don't doubt yourself. I've overheard enough of your conversations with Jess. The two of you seem to have a real thing there, and if you think it's more than friendship, then it is. Believe me, you've got more in common with him than with String Bean."

"Don't call him that," she defended automatically. She sighed, reliving the earlier conversation with Dean, and she felt anew the raw hurt he had conveyed. 

Like she had done only a few weeks previously on the backs of the Potomac, she let her mind flash back to their relationship, comprehending at that moment that, _this, _what they had had, was gone. Forever. She knew that there were bad aspects to their relationship —distrust, stifling overprotective moments, monotony, but for the moment, she could only see the sweet, good things about it. Their first kiss. The dance where she had rested in his arms, protected from the childish actions of her schoolmates. The moment she told him that she loved him. And thought that she did. A million kisses, sweet and lingering. All gone. 

Remorse flooded over her and she jumped up from the bed, stalking back and forth across the room. 

It hit her then, what she needed to do, and it dazed her that it hadn't been her first line of action. Yet another reminder of how things had changed this summer. "I've gotta talk to my mom."

"Okay." Paris replied, slowly, a hint of hurt flitting across her face. "I'm not good at this consoling thing, am I?" She started to get up from the bed.

"No, see, I tell my mom everything. You know. Everything and she'll know what I need to do." Rory picked up the phone from where it had fallen on her pillow, and started to dial. Then stopped and threw the phone to the floor. What was she thinking! "I can't call her! What would I say? No, I've got to go home." She grabbed a bag and started to throw things in it. At least she had just done laundry.

"Are you sure?" questioned Paris, obviously wondering if this was yet another fit of insanity.

Rory collected herself and reigning in her hasty train of thoughts, which were once again trying to get away from her. She slowed to fold a pair of jeans and tucked them into the corner of the bag, trying to put on a calmer demeanor. "Yeah, I'm sure. I need to do this. I haven't seen my mom in weeks and she'll...she'll make this better..." She trailed off. At least that's what her mom did before. "I have to tell her everything. I've never told my mom that I lied to her before. I can't tell her that on the phone." 

Her mother would never forgive her. She trembled as she imagined their conversation; there was no way that it would go well. She would be injuring her mother, her best friend, so badly, even worse than Dean, when she told her. She'd never trust her again. But there was no backing away from it now. Even more so than Dean, her mom deserved to know the truth. And then, maybe somehow, she could mend their relationship, although the likelihood seemed very slim at this moment... 

She brushed at her still dried eyes, and wondered why she wasn't crying. What was wrong with her? Why couldn't she cry when she destroyed the lives of those she most cared about? 

Paris had grown quiet, watching the haphazard packing with wide eyes. Rory paused and looked up at Paris, who hadn't moved from her awkward perch on the bed. Her presence had a calming influence, and she was more than grateful that Paris had found her. "Thanks. You did a great job on the comforting."

Violet coloring spread across her face. "You're welcome... Can I do anything?" She asked, hesitantly, still unsure of how to best deal with this situation.

"Would you mind calling the bus station? Maybe there's still a bus to Hartford tonight." Her mind worked quickly, sorting through different options. It was only ten, so maybe if not the bus, maybe there was a train out of Union Station, she could catch the Metro and—

"Why don't you take my car?"

"What? No, I couldn't." Rory looked up, startled at the very unexpected offer. Paris was offering her car, the one that she fretted over their whole entire journey down to D.C? She didn't know what to think; she must have misheard. 

"Why not? I mean, I'm not letting you go until you've calmed down, but this way you could come back when you're ready. Or stay, since it's almost the weekend." The offer appeared genuine, although it looked like it had startled Paris as much as Rory. Paris crossed to her desk and fished out her keys, removing her dorm key and handing the rest to Rory.

"We have that dinner tomorrow night, remember? I can take the bus." She argued back, trying to hand back the keys. 

"It'll take you seven hours to get home that way, you know that and then you'd just have to turn right back around. I'll tell our 'facilitators' that you're sick; no one will miss you. Take it. It's not like it's moved from its parking place since we got here." Paris smiled wryly.

Rory chewed on her lip. "Okay, but just for tomorrow. I can't miss your date. Not after our plans. I can't do that to you."

Paris waved her hand, although her face pinched momentarily at the reminder. " You know your mom won't let you come back so soon. It's not that big of a deal. I'm seventeen, surely I can manage to dress myself. And I don't think anybody should be forced to be witness to my emotional instability. Go."

Rory grinned, the first smile since the call. At that moment, she was feeling very much like the definition of emotionally instable. "Okay." Her hand tightened around the keys. "Thank you," she said earnestly, immensely grateful for the sign of unconditional support. Impulsively, she reached down and enveloped her in a hug. She could feel Paris's hesitation. A hand reached around and lightly touched Rory's back, then more firmly, and they embraced tightly. 

The tears started then. She tried to hold them back, but the confusing mire of emotions finally overwhelmed her. Paris's arm tightened, and she sank down on the bed, crying into her shoulder, weeping for all that she had lost, for that she had gained at such a horrible price. She was so tired of her warring emotions and she wept in longing for that sense of innocence that this summer had taken away.

The tears were slow to control, but eventually, they stopped. Disengaging from the hug, she wiped her eyes on a Kleenex, blew her nose. They sat next to each other, quietly for several seconds.

She reached over and grabbed her bag. "I think I'm off."

"You'll be okay?" There was concern thick in Paris's voice.

"Yeah. I'll be good. No more crying, I promise." She smiled wanly, as she made her way to the door.

Paris trailed behind her. She held the door open, as Rory wrested her things through. "Drive safe."

Rory met her eyes; they were slightly damp and bright. A warm smile touched her lips, parallel to one on Paris's face. "I will," she whispered faintly, and she turned to leave.

Somehow, this moment had finished the process that their fight had started. No longer just roommates, they were friends.

* * *

A/N: I think this chapter was the reason that I wrote this story—I needed to have the breakup my way. As always, please review and tell me how I'm doing. I love my loyal readers! 

A side note: The _Emily_ books are some of my favorite, and the phrases that I took from the book were where Emily was breaking up with her Dean. Isn't that freaky? 


	8. My heart was wrapped in clover

Disclaimer: GG does not belong to me. If it did, there's no way that Paris would not be "doing adult things" with her professor. However, I do put small claim on the plot. Lyrics: "At Last" Eva Cassidy's _Time After Time._

To all of my beloved reviewers: Wow, can I tell you how much I love you? I was positively giddy after receiving so many kind words of encouragement and support. Thank you so much! I realize that I made you wait an extra long time for this chapter, and for that, I beg your apologizes. 

This chapter is specially dedicated to the members of TsTsK (Too Stupid To Sleep Klub) and the Plethora. Without them, I would never know the downfalls of the Stupid Joint, or that coffee creamer burns fluorescent blue and Jorge the Evil Pinata would be ruling in unchecked dictatorship. I could only hint at the crazy fun we had, but wow, those were the years!

Songbird

Chapter 8: 

_At last, my love has come along _

_My lonely days are over _

_And life is like a song _

_At last, the skies above are blue _

_And my heart was wrapped in clover _

_The night I looked at you _

Paris closed the door firmly behind her roommate, leaned against the doorframe and let out a breath, feeling strangely weary and elated. The hug was still recent memory, lingering on her consciousness-she couldn't even recall the last time someone had willingly touched her, embraced her as a token of friendship or love; even her nanny never touched her beyond the requirements of her duties.

And Rory had freely hugged her-tightly, not a timid, polite gesture. And as weird as it sounded, she felt changed by it. Years of old hurts, rejections, and ugliness that had tainted who she was, seemed to be lifted away. The thought was so unbelievably silly and sappy that she almost wondered if there was an alien version of herself thinking those things. 

A smile stretched across her face, she felt so...happy she couldn't stop it. Who would have thought that this would happen-that they really would become friends? 

She shook herself out of her reverie. She had so much work to do and the lure of the quiet, empty room was becoming irresistible. She so rarely had the room to herself, with its blissful, productive silence that it felt wrong, letting it go to waste. She crossed to her desk and turned on the lamp, settling down with the many papers.

Twenty minutes later, she threw down her pen in frustration. In that time, she had written one sentence and read one paragraph four times without comprehension. She hated being unproductive, more so when she was unproductive for no reason. The quiet in the room was becoming, she hated to admit it, oppressive... She hadn't realized how much the mere presence of Rory had given life to the room, and now it felt stifling and claustrophobic. She couldn't hear any noises outside either-apparently the girls down the hall had (finally!) ceased arguing.

The phone rang shrilly at the moment, shattering the silence and deeply startling Paris. She jumped, her heart pumping hard against her chest. It rang again, and her pulse slowed as recognition of the sound set in-oh how she hated that thing!

She hesitated briefly, wavering between irrational fears of serial killers stalking her through the phone and the loathing of actually resorting to being Rory's answering machine, before deciding that she was being absolutely ridiculous. And if she didn't answer it, most likely, they'd just continue calling every fifteen minutes, destroying any peace. She lifted it from the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Yo." 

She had only heard that voice a few times before, but she recognized it instantly. Besides who else would be calling?

"That's how you answer the telephone?? Where'd all the vocabulary go from those big books you read?" She replied dryly.

He stopped. "Rory?"

"Paris." She informed him.

"Ah." A pause followed, a long pause. "Rory there?"

"No." 

He coughed. "Know when she'll be back?"

"No."

"Take a message?"

"I'll tell her you called."

"Yeah."

Another pause. "Been fun. Have fun-"

She cut him off before he could hang up. "So, I hear you gave Rory an ultimatum," she said coolly, trying to disguise her eagerness to hear his side of events.

"She tell you that?" There was nothing that she could read from the even tone.

"Yeah." There was just a hint of pride in her voice-oh, she was still reeling from being made Rory's sole confidant in the matter.

Confidant. She felt a twinge of conscience. Rory hadn't said not to say anything to anybody, but she might not appreciate it. Might not. Change that to most definitely not, particularly if she said something to Jess. Especially Jess.

She knew that Rory would never forgive her if she let slip how Rory felt about the tries-too-hard Bad Boy. She regretted opening her mouth and keeping Jess on the phone, why did she always do things like that? And now she'd have to spend the rest of their (hopefully brief) conversation watching her words, making sure that she didn't reveal anything. And she was never good with hiding secrets. 

"Did she also tell you that I gave her the 'ultimatum' over a month ago and she still hasn't done anything." He demanded, sharply, breaking into her guilt fest.

No." She admitted, slightly taken back. She had to give it to the guy; he had persistence. She couldn't imagine telling someone to make up their mind and still hanging around a month later. "She says that you're her best friend." 

"Great. Now we can get matching charm bracelets." He let out a long sigh of frustration and continued in a softer tone. "She's mine too. Doesn't mean that I don't want..." He trailed off. 

"You still like her." She insisted over his ramblings, carefully making sure she didn't divulge too much. Of all the things that she pictured doing this afternoon, playing matchmaker was not one of them. She had no patience for things like this-

"And Goldilocks has a brain under those curls."

For the first time in her life, Paris reigned in the angry retort that threatened to fly out. She could actually sense the hurt and frustration behind his words and she felt an unexpected surge of pity. It didn't last long. 

"It doesn't matter. I gave up. Moved on." He replied firmly in defeat, as if it were the only logical conclusion to everything. 

"What, you're just going to drop Rory for the first ditz to go strutting by?" She snapped back, anger for Rory raging inside. The irony was too much: he'd given up, right when Rory decided to go for it. 

"Why not?" He replied coolly. "She's interested."

"You're such a guy. So you've got a bimbo who's ready and willing to put out and it's been a long time since you've been laid, is that it?"

Jess laughed, a sharp, biting laugh. Laughing at her, his voice turned mocking and bitter. "Don't do slang, Paris, especially preppy slang. You barely know what half of it means."

She bristled. "Then let me spell it out for you. Sex? That's the only thing you care about? What would you have done if you had gotten Rory? It's not like she was going to be sleeping-"

"Yeah, already figured that one out. But thanks for the prying into my...what's it called... oh, yes, personal life." 

She ignored him. Sure, he sounded furious, but she had spent enough of her life putting up facades to read behind them. All the same, she was rather glad that there was many miles between them. She reminded herself never to get on his bad side-he could certainly give her a run for the money on scariness. "You want my advice?"

"No."

"Too bad." She waved away his refusal airily. She really should stop asking that question, everybody always answered wrong. 

"Then, why'd you ask?"

"Politeness, which you know I don't do. So shut up." She growled back. " You kissed her and then did the whole fall back, retreat routine. I never thought you were the coward type."

"You have it backwards." He muttered.

"No. She initiated it, but then you just let her go. What were you going to do, wallow all summer, then complain when she didn't write?" She hoped she didn't sound quite as idiotic as she thought she did.

"As you said, she's the one who started it. She fled, not me." He replied, but he seemed to be actually listening to her and the heated anger had died from his words. 

"And she's the one with a boyfriend-she's got conflicted emotions! And now, you're making it even worse, going the friend route. You're now Jess the Buddy rather than Jess the Mysterious, Jess the Sexy-"

"Aww. You're making me blush." He laughed slightly, this time more relaxed and devoid of sarcasm. "I'm just the friend now, why-"

"Because that's not what you want and I'm willing to bet it's not what she wants, either. She's confused. Stop playing the resigned martyr and go get her." She encouraged. Sometimes it absolutely amazed her that people managed to get together, what with their pathetic abilities to actually do something productive and get the ball rolling.

"Thanks for the pep talk, coach."

She laughed. "Somehow had to do it. Do you know how pathetic it is that you guys are coming to me for love advice?"

"Rory too?" There was no denying the current of curiosity that ran underneath the casual tone. 

Oh crap. She let more than she should have slip. She tried to keep her voice calm. "Um. Not really. No. We weren't even talking until a few days ago." Was it just to her ears that her voice sounded higher than normal. She prayed he didn't pick up on that... She was horrible at lying and sounding realistic.

"Yeah, I know." A pause, and thankfully he did not pursue that line of thought. "Why are you doing this?"

This wasn't that much better. She snorted. "Because Dean's a jerk? No, that's too strong. He's nothing. Maybe nice, but he's boring, blasŽ. He's a _jock,_" which was explanation enough, "with Rory, they're like a white bread with butter sandwich. And Rory's not usually that bland, it's all Dean. She'd taste pretty good, but she needs some spices. But you, you're fresh cilantro... Served alone, you're overwhelming, but you bring out the best in her."

"Food metaphor, with cannibalistic overtones. I'd say Rory's rubbing off on you." That deprecating tone infused his voice, but he continued with deep intensity, "You think I'm good for her?" He sounded almost wistful, hopeful. She stifled a laugh. He was so love's slave. 

"Maybe. You could be. And vice versa. Or maybe, there's just this morbid streak in me that wants to see how your freakish town reacts to the two of you dating."

"It's not my town." He growled.

"They seriously think that you're the bad boy. Please. Maybe you are trying for the James Dean look-alike contest, but really? You're not even close. Maybe Jason Priestly, with the leather jacket and brood."

"I resent that. I'm at least on _The Outsiders_ level of bad."

"Maybe Ponyboy. But you're not even close to a Sodapop or...what's the name of the kid played by Matt Dillon?"

"Dallas."

"Him. You don't have the muscles, don't have the anger issues."

"You've only seen the movie?" He sounded affronted.

"Don't get all twisted. S.E. Hilton. Wrote it when she was 16, published in 1967, the first of her 'misunderstood rebel' teen novels. I bet you read her a lot, get tips on how to comb your hair and get the right slouch."

"And folks say you don't have a sense of humor."

"I don't. Who says I was being funny?" But she couldn't keep the twinkle out of her voice. 

"Gotta go. Luke's calling. Tell Rory that... um, I'll talk to her in a few days."

"Fine. Just do me a favor. No Shannon, or whatever Slutty's name is."

"Shane?" He supplied, amused.

"Yes. Don't...go for her. Give things with Rory another chance."

"Maybe." But she could tell he was smiling thoughtfully. The phone went dead. 

She hung it up, the blood pumping in her veins. She felt more exhilarated and alive than she had in a long time. She loved this-the bantering, the witty repartee. That was the Jess that Rory talked to, and she could see why Rory found him attractive. Heck, even she found him attractive-the right mix of atypical good looks, blunt and articulate at the same time, and not afraid of an argument. She could leave the "tall, dark and handsome" to the cheerleaders, they annoyed her as much as the pathetically shy and awkward. Which, she reflected, was probably the reason why she and Brad had gotten along so dreadfully at first, until he had finally opened up and exposed those hidden brains behind the stutter. 

Jess had intrigued her since she had first met him at the medieval dinner last Christmas, although she highly doubted that he remembered their conversation-even then, the attraction and sparks had been obvious, he and Rory could barely take their eyes off of each other. It was no wonder that Dean had been his usual charmingly possessive and grumpy self. 

The complete lack of desire to recreate the Tristan situation had been more than enough to prevent Paris from even considering pursuing Jess. Even now, had Rory decided to be safe and stupid and stay with Dean, she still wouldn't try (even if Jess had shown some interest, which was so unlikely, it was laughable. Jess had pretty much proven himself to be a one-girl guy). 

But there was no harm in admitting to herself that she completely understood why Rory liked him. No, if it had been her deciding between Dean and Jess, there would have been no question about the outcome. And honestly, she couldn't completely understand why it took Rory so long to figure that out-if she had had that kind of hotness...

She laughed, the sound echoing uneasily in the room. She was starting to sound as boy-crazy as Louise and Madeline. 

No, the truth was, when it came down to it, she could also see how right the two of them were for each other, which helped reign in the few small feelings of attraction that she might have. They balanced each other and connected...it hadn't taken that many overheard three hour long conversations to figure that out.

And strangely, she enjoyed this aspect of things, playing Yente to the misguided, being the best friend. She had never been on this side, she had never been on any side of the dating thing, and it was fascinating, watching the attraction and romance deepen. Now, if only Jess didn't do something idiotic... 

She shifted on the bed, papers slipping over the edge onto the floor, reminding her abruptly of her project. There was no way she was going to get any more studying done tonight, not with her frantic and disorderly thoughts. It probably didn't even matter-scattered-brain Ms. Black probably wouldn't even notice that her paper was late-how she had gotten elected still baffled Paris. The woman barely knew what day it was, much less noticing her protŽgŽ. It had only been her strong sense of work ethic that had encouraged her to do anything in the first place.

It was getting late, anyway, past her routine 10:15 bedtime-she had discovered long ago that the best way to get rid of an endless day was to go to bed early. At least her dreams were interesting. But tonight... She wished that Rory was there-she wanted to talk. The silence was becoming oppressive again, an almost itching sensation.

She stood up abruptly. She had to get out of here-get a soda or run a marathon. Her eyes fell to the remaining pizza lying forgotten on the floor. She paused, a sudden idea seizing her. She grabbed the box and walked out the door.

* * *

Brad answered on the second knock, a smile stretching across his face. "Hey!"

"Rory and I got pizza, " she announced abruptly. "And there's leftovers. Do you want it? Otherwise, it's going to spoil and if I put it in the fridge, somebody will just steal it and it would have been a lot of effort for nothing." She stopped herself. For some reason, she always seemed to ramble more around him. She thrust the box towards him.

He took it, the smile widening. "I think I can get rid of it for you. You wanna come in?"

She trailed after him. Tad was there, playing something on his computer. He glanced up briefly to grab a slice of pizza and grunted a hello at her, before returning to his game.

She sat down on Brad's bed-once again, neatly made; he apparently wanted to defy the "men are slobs" stereotype. Tad's side, of course, was the end result of a hurricane.

Brad plopped down on his computer chair and swiveled towards her, stretching out his legs. She was suddenly struck with how... good he looked, wearing a well-fitted pair of jeans and a hazy blue shirt that seemed to bring out red highlights in his hair, not to mention the effects on his eyes. She had never noticed them before, but now, she was shocked by how blue and clear they looked, even under the fluorescent light. She had always considered him rather nerdy looking, maybe not as bad as the nerds from the eighties flicks, but definitely somebody who'd look right at home in a chemistry lab and the Chilton uniform accentuated that. And now.... well handsome might never describe him, but there was something definitely almost appealing about him. She studied him, her hands becoming slightly moist and an unfamiliar feeling fluttering in her stomach.

He waved a hand in front of her face and she started, heat spreading across her cheeks and ears. She shook her head at his slightly puzzled look and the blush intensified. She must be redder than a house on fire. What was wrong with her-first she had been slightly coveting Jess and now, she was positively swooning over Brad? 

"How's your day?" she asked hastily, before he started asking her what was wrong. Her voice sounded high-pitched and semi-wobbly to her ears and she inwardly cringed. She had never asked anybody how their day was... he'd read through that in an instant.

If he had noticed her sudden bout of weirdness, he showed little sign of it. "Eh. Boring. Played go fetch for the big dawg, came back, finally got the wiring done and challenged Tad to a match on Age of Empires."

"Asian what?"

"_Age_ of Empires." He corrected with a gesture toward the computer screen. "It's a game, where you lead an army into a new territory and try to take over. It's a little bit like a computerized version of Risk."

"Sounds like... fun."

'Spoken by one who has never discovered the joy of wasting away an entire afternoon in front of a computer."

"And one who never will."

"Never say never, Paris, or some might take it on as a bet." His eyes twinkled. Twinkled. She inexplicably felt like swearing. Twinkling eyes was supposed to be some kind of cheesy description that bad writers fell back on when the art of the craft failed them. But his had a definite light that sparked and danced across his irises when he smiled. Why on earth was she noticing all of this now??

"...So, whatcha say?" He broke into her thoughts, continuing a conversation that she could not recall one word of.

"What?" She barked, embarrassed at being caught once again pondering about him.

He didn't notice her aggressive tone. "I can teach you how to play, if you'd like. We're trying to get a tournament going, beginners welcome."

She shook her head, vigorously. "No...no, that's okay. Um, I'm interrupting and you, you should finish your game. It's late, I have a paper due tomorrow and I need to check on a resource-" She babbled as she moved from the bed. 

He reached out and grabbed her arm. "No, stay. No computer games. We can do something else."

She stilled, completely forgetting why she had been leaving, the flutters in her stomach returning at his touch, his slightly rough and calloused fingers, sensitizing her skin. She nodded, not trusting her voice.

He released her arm, seemingly relieved and a little anxious-her mood must have been contagious, for although he was (hopefully) unaware of the feelings that were darting around in Paris's mind, his eyes were darting around more, avoiding hers. "Okay."

"What did you have in mind?" 

"Um, I-I don't know." He shuttered slightly. "I guess, we could watch a movie. I've got a DVD player on my computer."

"Okay."

"Lame idea, I know, but I can't think of anything better. I'm on the spot here... Charades? Ice Cream Sundaes?"

"A movie is fine." She answered quickly. That feeling was still there, lodged somewhere between her ribs and diaphragm. She couldn't look at him... She should just leave, get some sleep so that in the morning, everything would be normal. Normal. Right. Since this summer started, she wasn't even sure what normal was. 

Brad was shuffling through a pile on OblivoBoy Tad's desk. "Um, we've got _Gattaca_, _Men In Black_, _Fellowship of the Ring_, season 3 of _Red Dwarf_, which is the by far the best, a couple of MST3K episodes-"

A snort interrupted him. He looked up to find her laughing on the verge of hysteria. "What?"

"Are there...any movies that... you own that aren't branded...geek??" She managed to choke.

He looked affronted and more flustered. "Gee, thanks, Paris."

She tried to reign in her laughter. "I didn't mean to insult you. But, seriously, do you own one movie that's not sci-fi?"

"There's _The Princess Bride."_ He checked through the movie pile again.

"Fantasy. Doesn't count. You are a geek." She teased.

The offended look was still on his face. "Hey, I resemble that remark." The slow grin crept up his face, as he watched to see if she got the joke. "What's that old cliched saying? Something about a black kettle?"

"I'm not the one who just admitted that he knew the best season of _Red Dwarf_. Where's your _Star Trek_ collection?"

"Okay, that's it. You asked for it. Just for that, we're watching _Pod People_."

"_Pod People?_ Let me guess, it's about people from pods?"

"You jest, my lady, but before the evening is over, I shall have you singing the praises of Mystery Science Theater."

"Sounds like fun. Do you have any aluminum? I need to make sure that there aren't any aliens probing around in my mind." She couldn't resist getting in one more mocking comment. 

"Ha ha. Keep that out and we'll be making it a double feature with _Manos, the Hands of Fate_." He threatened, loading the disk into his computer. 

"I'm just so scared. I mean, I'll be hopeless, completely unable to get up and just leave."

"But you won't." He smirked in satisfaction as he sat down beside her. The bed sank as he shifted close to her, bringing the laptop between them. 

She glanced down at his knees perched so close to hers. "No." she stated firmly, as if she were trying to convince herself. "No, I won't."

"Let Operation-Paris-Embraces-Her-Geeky-Side commence." He commanded in a deep voice, opening his arms wide.

"Just what I need." She laughed back. "You know this mission is destined for failure."

His eyes twinkled again, and this time...this time, she let herself be absorbed in them. Blue. She had always liked blue eyes. 

* * *

"Chief."

"No."

"Aw, come on. Just once. Chief."

"No. The movie was bad enough without personally reliving it."

'Fine, if I can't get one McCloud out of you, I'm pulling out the big guns... It's quote time! _'Trumpy, you can do stupid things!_'"

"I'm serious, Brad, if you quote one more line from that movie..."

"You'll what?" He taunted, a green gleam appearing in his eyes. "Do nothing? _'She's zestfully dead_.' Come on, Paris, make good on your threat-o-nothin'. _'Bambi, humans are basically good_.'" He mimicked in a high-pitched voice.

She reached across and slugged him. He fell against the statue, looking affronted. "Hey, you messed my performance! I was just getting started."

"You just ended. Do you know how wrong it is that you can quote that whole movie?"

"It's funny."

"It's unbelievably stupid."

"And you laughed through most of it. So hard, I thought you were going to fall off the bed." He poked her arm.

That _feeling_ at his touch still lingered, but the intensity of it had faded. She shook it off. "That's unprovoked slander. You can't prove it." She hedged, a smile sneaking across her face.

She shifted, settling back into a more comfortable crevice of Albert Einstein's arm. At least it was no longer broiling hot, although the humidity hadn't lessened and the metal statue retained the heat of the sun. "I like it here," she stated abruptly.

"I knew you would. Despite your protests you're a nerd at heart." He teased. She grimaced at him, and turned away. Saying anything would only encourage him.

Tad had gotten off his computer near the end of the movie and had fallen promptly asleep. The rest of the show had been punctuated with his murmurs-he apparently talked in his sleep, a fact that Brad had ruthlessly taken advantaged of by the time the credits rolled. Tad awoke, irritated and grumpy, mid-sentence about his stuffed animals that he slept with at home and the two had fled the room in gut-breaking giggles.

Ignoring that voice of reason that suggested sleep might be a good and wise idea, she had readily agreed to his suggestion for a walk around campus. The awkwardness had disappeared, she was wide-awake and she hadn't really spent much time on campus.

The campus has gotten boring quickly...a lot of locked buildings. But their conversation, which varied from talking politics-his arguments, contrary to what prior debate matches had suggested, were well-thought out (even at one in the morning) and fact-based, which impressed her-to philosophical questions on what their thoughts appeared like, (although thinking about thinking had pretty much induced a headache), had certainly left her entertained-especially as the hour grew later and their conversation grew exponentially more silly. Who would have thought that Paris Gellar would be arguing that Buttercup was the best of the Powerpuff Girls? At three in the morning?

She wasn't tired, not yet. Oh no, she felt alive, exuberant, liberated, as if the steamy DC weather had loosened her rigorous nature that defined her, as if she drank wine with each laughing breath. How else to explain her childish behavior of engaging Brad in a water fight...in the middle of a fountain on campus? It turned into a tsunami-she was drenched, he was worse, and she had never had such fun. She thought that she was going to make herself sick from laughing.

Afterwards, their path had meandered through campus, veering towards the National Mall, and ended up in the small grove that housed the Albert Einstein Memorial, the one monument she had overlooked in her days playing tourist. They had walked around the statue, reading the quotes (Brad recited in a Donald Duck voice, destroying any sense of reverence that remained), connecting the stars on the ground-Brad swore that he could make out Homer Simpson, which led to another round of teasing him about his nerd status.

She leaned against Albert's arm, tracing out the "E=mc2 equation on the bronzed paper. "I hate him, you know," she suddenly admitted.

"Who?"

"Them. Einstein. Newton. Stephen Hawkins."

"You hate dead guys and one who's in a wheelchair?" He cocked an eyebrow, amusement playing across his face.

"I used to dream of becoming a great scientist, a researcher like Marie Curie. Or Rosalind Franklin. Finding the cure to cancer, or something else. Something great that I would be remembered for. And then one day, I woke up and realized that it would never happen. Not to me. I may be the smartest person ever at Chilton-and don't you dare let Rory's name pass your lips-but that just means I'm aware, very aware of how mediocre I'll be once I leave. I'm not an Einstein. Maybe I'm Rosalind, the tight unhappy woman who watched while some other know-it-all swept in and made it all look easy and walked away with the Nobel prize and all I'll get from it is a bad case of radiation exposure. When it comes down to it, I'm destined for a life of nothing."

Brad had remained quiet through her tirade, staring down at the stars, one leg dangling from his perch on Albert's lap. "That...that's not going to happen." His voice was deep, his eyes intent and serious. She felt his hand touch hers, then wrap around her fingers. "You are the most capable person I know, with determination that has never been seen before. You amaze me, the way that you know exactly what you want and how to get it. By the time you're finished making your mark, Paris, no one will remember that city in France."

She barely heard him. She stared down at their joined hands, aware of every point his skin pressed against hers. His hand was warm, slightly damp. Icy, little prickles shot down her wrist and the butterflies in her stomach turned into hummingbirds. 

She knew that she should let go, gently remove her hand from his, somehow doing it without offending him. And this gesture meant nothing...a comforting move, nothing more. Brad was probably thinking of ways to take his hand away without hurting her feelings. There was no reason that she should keep her hand in his, or ever so slightly increase the grip of her fingers. No reason.

The conversation lulled, an uncomfortable pause pushing between them.

"You got plans for the we-weekend?" He tried to sound casual, the break in his voice betraying him.

She shook her head, not looking at him. "No, not really. Rory's gone."

"Um, well, then, I've got..."

"Oh crap." She interrupted. "I forgot. I'm going on that date with Jamie."

"Jamie?" His voice didn't change, but his hand was suddenly gone. Her hand felt cold, the print of his fingers burned into her skin. She snatched it to her chest.

"The intern that works with Rory. She set me up with him."

"I know. I th-thought you weren't going to go."

"So did I. But Rory wanted me to meet him, and I promised."

"Oh."

"It's just coffee. I'm bringing pepper spray in case he turns homicidal... It's nothing, really." She defended, trying to explain. Was he disappointed in her? For being soft and giving in to Rory's persuasion? "Why? This weekend, why do you want to know?"

His fingers fiddled with the edge of his shirt. "I...I have tickets to the Kennedy Center and wondered if you wanted to go."

"Tickets?"

"Yeah... they're putting on _La Boheme_. It's an opera."

"I know that."

"It's not a big deal. I can find someone else."

She shrugged her shoulders, thinking about it. She had never been to the opera; worse case scenario, she could just sleep through it. Rory would still be gone and she didn't want to spend the evening alone in that tiny room. "Sure. Coffee is only in the afternoon."

He looked up, hopeful. "Really?"

"Yes. I've wanted to see the Kennedy Center, it's one of the last places on my to-see list."

"Then I'll pick you up at 7, is that okay?"

"Pick me up?" 

"Meet you at your room, I guess." He laughed nervously. She didn't, comprehension dawning a minute too late.

"This is...you just...you just asked me on a...date?" She squeaked. 

The laugh died. "Um...something like that...I mean..." He sighed deeply, and fidgeted more with his shirt. "Look, you don't have to... Don't do something that you don't want to. You still have your get out of jail free card." His voice hardened to steel.

"That's not what I meant." She protested. "I said yes, didn't I? I just didn't realize..."

"Well, now you do. Yes or no, Paris? It's your choice. Don't feel like you need to accept."

"I told you, yes, okay? You're the one who sounds like you're trying to find excuses." She retorted angrily, sliding down the statue. "It's late. I need sleep." She turned and headed back towards campus with long strides the tall grass slapping at her ankles, unexpectedly feeling tears smart her eyes.

The journey back was silent and long. Painfully long-the several blocks seemed to taken hours to transverse. She was all too aware of the shadow beside her, although she refused to look at him. He was quiet, the contrast to their jovial journey down all too apparent.

Finally, the sidewalk opened up to the familiar grounds of Lafette Hall. Her fingers trembled slightly as she wiggled her key into the outside lock, and her knees were shaking.

"Paris." Brad spoke softly, reaching out to grab her arm.

She didn't say anything, holding the door slightly open.

He exhaled deeply and dropped his hand. "Look, I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean..." He chewed on his bottom lip. "I want...the ticket is still yours, if you want it." He offered lamely. 

She was prepared to tell him off. The whole walk back, she formulated exactly what she was going to tell him, how she was tired of being treated like she was a kid in need of entertainment, a burden. And now the words melted away at his intense look. Exhaustion crept into her mind...she just didn't want to deal with this tonight and she had already said yes. 

"Pick me up at seven." She opened the door and walked down the hall, ever looking back at him.

She readied for bed in a daze, her mind swirling unhappily and those jitters taking residence in her stomach again as she grasped what she had done. She had just agreed to go on a date. With Brad. Those feelings of attraction and excitement had faded away, and all she was left with was a sensation that felt a lot like the stomach flu. With a groan, she stretched out on her bed and smothered her face with her pillow. Now what was she going to do? 

* * *

Paris stood in front her of her closet. She considered the clothing that hung there, a pensive and rather disturbed look on her face. Her closet, like so much of her life, was the epitome of efficiency. Shirts were neatly hanging next to ironed skirts, next to smooth, evenly pressed slacks.

She had so often scoffed at the girls whose clothes were their lives, spending hours shopping and trying on various items, making sure each morning that their outfits were perfectly coordinated with their belly button rings and then complaining about how such-and-such made their hips fat. What a waste of a life. To be fair, there were clothes that she wore a little more frequently because she looked good in them, surprisingly most stuff her mother had picked out. He mother, she grudgingly admitted, had a good and tasteful eye, although that didn't making the shopping excursions any less intolerable or boring. But clothes were useful necessities and little else. She prided herself on how _she_ had never stood in front of a closet, bemoaning the act that she had nothing to wear.

Until today. She lifted a hand and listlessly pulled out a shirt. Much too casual. That red looked putrid-what had possessed her to even bring it? She had brought some tailored suits for the formal dinners, but they were much too business-like and severe.

Nothing. There was positively nothing that she could wear to an opera.

She groaned, and stamped her foot. Why had she even agreed to this madness? She didn't even like opera! Part of her wanted nothing more than to call him up and bluntly him that the whole thing was off. But there was that other part, that now-not-so-foreign-but-way-too-active part that had been discovered these last few weeks, that fought against those desires and held her back. At this point, it would nothing less than inconsiderate and mean, and she couldn't do it to him.

No, she'd go through with it and go on the date. One date. An actual date. A real date, with a guy who had _not_ been put up to it by Rory. Yes, there was excitement there in her gut, mingling with the anticipation and completely dwarfed by the sickening anxiety and fear that threatened to overcome her every time she thought about it.

And it was here. In a few short hours, too short, she'd be on an actual date. It was strange how time had positively crept by yesterday, while she attempted to avoid Brad-she blushed horribly when she passed him in the hall and could barely stammer out a hello at his smile... And now today, when she wished that she could just avoid the whole thing for another year or two, the time was just flying by.

She was obsessing about it, she knew. But she couldn't stop thinking about it and the feelings of agony intensified. If only she could find something to wear! At least it would be one less thing to think about.

The phone rang.

She lunged for it, a welcome distraction-she was desperate for any other thought to occupy her.

"Hello," she barked.

"Hey! Paris!" The melodic voice was infused with friendship, warmth and excitement.

'Rory." She almost shouted her name as she sagged to the floor in relief, many of the resident butterflies dissipating instantly. The one person that she had been doing to talk to, the one person who could help and fix and fix all of this mess. "I'm so glad you called," she continued, with unexpected fervor and meant every word. 

'How are things? How was your date? I'm so excited to hear all about it!" Rory gushed. There was a faint squeak in the background; Paris could picture her roommate perched on her bed, bouncing in anticipation.

She smiled slightly. "I haven't gone yet. The opera's at eight. Can you wear slacked to the opera or do I have to wear a skirt?"

"The opera? I thought you were going out for coffee."

Coffee? Oh coffee. She had forgotten that Rory had been left out of some of the events that night. "Coffee with Jamie? Right. Yes, already did that."

"And? How did it go?"

"He's a nice guy, you were right." She admitted, distractedly. From her position on the floor, she spied Rory's closet across the room. Perhaps there was something there...

"What did you talk about?" Rory pried.

"College applications." Rory hadn't taken any laundry with her but there was a chance that there was something clean.

"College applications? That's it?" Rory repeated, an incredulous note in her voice.

"Pretty much. He told me about Princeton, I asked him how many schools he applied to and somehow we never found out way out of the conversation."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's wasn't bad for a blind date. I was expecting much worse. I wasn't too awkward and I managed not to make a fool of myself. I even refrained from asking him about his SAT scores."

"Well that's good then. And you're going out again tonight, so it must have been better than you're suggesting."

"No. Not with Jamie. With Brad. I am going with Brad." She confessed impatiently, for the first time saying the words aloud. They didn't sound as bad as she had feared they would. _I am going out with Brad_, she repeated silently, and the fluttery ache returned.

"That sounds nice. Wait, as a date?"

"Yes. I think so."

'With Brad?" And there was no mistaking the blatant disbelieve in her tone.

"Yes. Why is _that_ so hard to believe?" She demanded harshly, wishing that she had never told the girl, if this was the response she was going to get. She should have known, that all of the words of friendship were just that-honeyed words and nothing else. In truth, Rory felt exactly the way she had before and her reaction now proved it.

"It's not," Rory spoke over her bitter thoughts, "It's great. Really. But I didn't think that you liked him like that."

"I don't," she admitted shortly. But some of that burst of anger drained away. Maybe she was wrong, maybe Rory really did mean it. She wondered if she would ever get to the point where she could completely trust that their friendship was real. "I mean... I don't think so. But we were talking last night, and he asked and I said yes, not thinking it was a date. But it is, and I don't know what to do. It was bad enough with Jamie, but Jamie was a fluke, he probably mistook me for someone else. But this, I was there, he asked me. On a date. To my face. I keep going over the conversation to see what his motives were. I don't think I looked desperate, but maybe I did and didn't know it. Likely, I sounded pathetic and lonely and he was just taking pity on me. Maybe-"

"Stop with the jumping, kangaroo." Rory broke into her rambles. "You know why, silly."

"No, I don't."

A long and frustrated sigh carried over the line. "Sometimes, it amazes me how you can be so smart and so dense at the same time. He likes you. As in _likes_ you." 

She couldn't overlook the emphasis that Rory put on the word. "That's... No."

"Fine. I tried the clueless thing for a while, guess it's your turn. But honestly, Paris, think about it. Would it really be that bad if he did?"

If it was possible, now she felt even more anxious about this evening. This was not helping. "How are things in Sleepy Hollow?"

Rory sobered instantly. "Hard. I told Mom everything. She didn't even talked to me until last night."

"She was that angry?" Paris replied in disbelief. Lorelai not talking was a form of livid she had never seen.

"She's not angry, exactly. I could deal with that, I think. We'd yell it out and things would be okay. She's...hurt and upset and a little angry on top of that."

"I don't understand why she's so upset. You didn't do anything that bad."

Rory yelped, "Um, I cheated on my boyfriend and lied to him and my mother about it."

"So? On the scale of evil, your wings may have lost some glow, but it's not like you did drugs or slept with Jess. _I've_ lied to my mother about worse."

"I've never lied to Mom, ever. Once when I was six, I took some money from my piggy bank and bought a chocolate bar, even though she had told me that I couldn't have one. I felt so guilty that I threw it away and told her as soon as I could find her."

"And science has now confirmed that there exists a person with too much morality."

Rory didn't laugh. "Do I? That's what Lane says too, but she's got lying down to a cultured art. I don't think she's ever told her parents the complete truth. Mom never used to doubt me. Now, every time, she's going to be wondering if I'm hiding something."

"You should be! It's part of the teenage job description, along with shouting and slammed doors and pouring wounded secrets to 'Dear Diary' about how 'mom just doesn't understand me'." She mocked, continuing, "Better find a diary, Rory. Somehow, I don't think Lorelai wants to hear about your make-out marathons with Jess." 

Rory grumbled, "She's not going to get the chance, the way things are going."

"What do you mean?" Paris questioned, her mind flashing to the previous conversation with Jess. He hadn't already gone after that floozy; if he had, she'd kill him.

"I haven't seen him! _Luke's_ is closed."

"Closed? Why?"

"I don't know! Nobody knows. I went to yesterday and the doors were locked without a note. They're not in town, and I don't think it's a bonding fishing trip." She paused, a lingering note of hope vibrating in her voice. "Has he called?"

"Thursday, the night you left. Not since then. Sorry."

"Did he say anything? Where he was going? When he'd call?" She demanded breathlessly. 

"No, not really. We really didn't talk about that."

"You talked to him? About what?"

There it was again, that feeling of panic for saying too much. This was one of the social graces that her mother had never even attempted to teach her. She hesitated for the briefest of moments before answering honestly. "Nothing much. SE Hilton. How much we hate Dean." Should she tell Rory the rest of the telephone exchange? Finding out that there was a remote (extremely remote, really) possibility of another girl would do nothing more than freak Rory out.

But she always didn't want to hide anything either. Things had been going so well with the honesty policy... She opened her mouth, but before she could continue, Rory sighed deeply. "Sounds like you bonded. I didn't know what to say anyway."

"What? Rory, you've never been able to shut up around him."

"I know, but it's different now..." She continued in a tiny voice. "Do you really think he likes me?"

"Yes." Thursday's dialogue had certainly proved that. 

"But-"

"Yes, silly. You made up your mind, that's what he was waiting for. Next time you see him, just grab him and kiss him senseless and I think he'll get the idea. You seem to do pretty good with that." Paris replied, wryly.

Rory giggled. "I'd like that, but I think we're going to need to talk a little first this time."

"Spoilsport. Always thinking with that left brain matter."

"That's me."

They were quiet for a moment. 'Mom just got home." Rory broke in. "We're doing a Mel Brooks marathon. I'd better go and sure that _The Bride of Frankenstein_ is not one of the choices."

"Why?"

"Gene Wilder is in it, playing the crazy scientist. _Willy Wonka_ just ruined him for any other character."

"The logic of a Gilmore," Paris baited. 

Rory ignored her. "And you need to finish getting ready. When do you leave?"

The date. "I completely forgot." Paris moaned, checking her watch in a panic. "He's going to be here in 22 minutes, and guess what? I still have nothing to wear."

"Dig in my closet, you're welcome to it all... I brought a couple of dressy skirts that I've never used. Try the light pink one, with the little frilly thingies on the bottom. It's my favorite."

"And maybe I can put flowers in my hair too!" She mocked.

Rory picked up on the tone. "Too girly?"

"Way too girly. I'd look like a Barbie doll. I don't wear pink." That had been one of her first acts against rebellion against her mother-refusing with cold eyes rather than tears to put a fluffy pink creation on. Her mother had backed down with crocodile tears of her own and moans of how she "just couldn't control the child." Paris smiled grimly; it was a rather good memory.

"But you could. You'd look good in pink."

"Yeah, sure." She scoffed with a shudder.

"No, I'm serious. Remember when we first came here, and you said that this summer was going to be different. Nobody knew you, it was going to be a fresh start."

"Yeah, that was stupid. It obviously didn't work."

"Yes, it did! I mean, look at you, you have two dates in one day. That didn't happen to the old Paris, did it?"

'I didn't change, Rory. You know that and Brad knows that too. If I dress up, we'll both know that it's just me playing make-believe. He'll see right through me."

"Maybe you didn't change, not really. Maybe that Paris was already there, just being overshadowed by the domineering Paris. And maybe even deeper than that is "I wear pink skirts with confidence" Paris. Layers! You've got layers like an onion! You're like Shrek!"

"You'd better leave the psychoanalyzing to the professionals, shall we?" She replied, dryly. That was a comparison she could have done without-just what her self-esteem needed, being told that she was like some green creature. 

"Fine. Mom thought it was a great analogy. I'm just saying..."

"I get the picture. Maybe. I don't know." She waffled, not wanting to refuse off hand. 

"In any case, I think you're down to 17 minutes, so I really have to go. And Paris?"

"Yeah?"

"Have fun. I mean it. Forget it's a date. It's Brad, and before anything else, he is your friend and just have fun with no worries or freak outs or anything. You deserve it."

She was touched. "I'll try."

The goodbyes were quick after that. Paris hung up the phone and moved towards Rory's closet, pulling out the outfit she had recommended. The thoughts lay thick and heavy in her mind, she couldn't even sort out how she was feeling or thinking. She slipped into the skirt, followed by a matching, soft shirt, and slide white sandals onto her feet. Pulled her hair back to hang loosely down her back. Touched a little mascara and shade to her eyes, smeared gloss on her lips. Stared at her reflection. 

She looked...different. Definitely not her, and yet... Softer, a little more feminine, the blouse and skirt finding curves that she hadn't even known existed. Sure she had dressed up before-for the parties that her mother insisted that she attend, for her one-and-only date with Tristan, but then, the clothes had felt uncomfortable, fit wrong, and in general, she had looked ridiculous. A wooden puppet trying to pass off as a princess. But now... it _almost_ felt right. And that, more than anything frightened her. 

She reached down blindly, almost desperate to get rid of the clothing, when a knock sounded, stopping her fingers. Brad was early. Three minutes early.

Her knees shook and for a long moment, she couldn't move. Then, slowly, mechanically, she crossed to the door and opened it.

Brad stood there, a petrified look plastered on his pale face. He was dressed in a suit, hair slicked back, the same sort of attire that he wore every day at Chilton. He looked as ill at ease as she felt, which for some reason comforted her. At least, they could both be absurd together.

He smiled when he saw her, some of the nervousness draining from his face. "You look nice," he complimented, without a stutter, although his cheeks stained beet-red promptly after.

"Thanks," she replied shortly, unable to think of anything else to say.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes, just let me grab my keys." She turned back to the room.

He stood awkwardly in the hall and as she closed the door and locked it, spoke softly. "I th-thought you were go-going to cancel."

Paris slowly took the key out of the lock as she contemplated how to respond. She met his eyes. "So did I."

He blushed brighter, and crooked an elbow towards her, an understanding look crossing his face. "Shall we?" He recovered, with a gallant dip of his head.

She slipped her arm through his, a giggle bubbling up inside where those flutters had so recently lived. Everything felt ordinary again. Brad was still just Brad and she was going to have fun. "Indeed."

Together they walked down the hall.

Technical A/N: You may not have noticed, but I completely edited and reorganized the first chapters of this story. Two chapters merged with two other chapters, Jess got a personality lift, etc. I'm not sure how much better the changes are, but they made me sleep a little better. Anyway, this may cause problems for those who previously signed reviews for 8 and 9. If ff.net tells you that you already reviewed, please send comments to me at jcd1013@yahoo.com. 

Only two more chapters remain (sniff!) and I am working on them as hard and as fast as I can. Please be patient with me... My classes are extremely busy, and I have the Boards (the big tests in medical school that I have pass in order to go on...and they pretty much determine which kind of doctor I'll become) coming up shortly, for which I have to study. This story _will_ be completed by July, but that's the best I can promise you. I really appreciate your patience.


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